

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


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Vol, I. No. 2. 


September i, 1894. 





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OUTING LIBRARY 


Vol. I., No. I. 

ISSUED MAY, i8q4. 

Contains the following 

EXCELLENT TURF STORIES. 


Donald Grey 

The Luck of a Good for Nothing 

A. B. WARD. 


Rev. Dr. Black . 

A. A. GARDNER. 

Fidele .... 

A. A. GARDNER. 

Two Year Old Heroine 

E. TREVELYAN. 

Racing at Southern Fairs 

K TREVELYAN. 

Over a Cigar 

EON RUSSELL. 


Jack Lindsay 

E. TREVELYAN. 





Vol I. No. 2. OUTING LIBRARY. Sept, ist, 1894. 


A coim Df tmmmi 


BY 

EDGAR FAWCETT, 

1' * 

AND OTHER OUTING STORIES. 


ILLUSTRATED. 



OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY 

NEW YORK AND LONDON, 


T ^'^0 


Copyrighted by B. J. Worman, 1894. 

NEW YORK. 


Entered at the Postoflice, New York, as second class matter, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A Comedy ok Counterplots, {Illustrated.) c ii 

EDGAR FAWCETT. 

Pasteli.e, {Illustrated ) . ,58 

CLARA SPRAGUE ROSS. 

A Medley of the Midway Plaisance , 91 

A. B. WARD. 

A Very Strange Case . , . 115 

WM. HINCKLEY. 

The Plagelante’s Sin, {Illustrated.) . 137 

1 HER ESA M. RANDALL. 

The Tetter of Credit . » . 158 

CHAS. C. NOT T, JR. 

The Ghost at White Bear . . .177 

B y ERANKL VN W. LEE. 




A COMEDY OF 

COUNTERPLOTS 


By EDGAR FAWCETT. 


OUTIN^ LIBRAl^Y 

VOL. 1 , No. 3. 

STORIES OF ADVENTURE 

BY Capt. chas. King, 

AND OTHERS. 

REAEaY in sertemiber. 


I 

a CONTENTS. 


I 

I 

I 

I 


Rancho del !Muerto, {Ilhistr'ated.') 
Capt. Chas. King. 

A JNIiohty Hunter Before The Lord. 
By {the late) Virgin ius Dabney. 

A CoHUTTA Valley Shooting Match. 
Will xY. H. Harden. 

Moeran’s Moose, {Illustrated.') 

Edw. W. Sandys. 

On the Wrong Side of the Snow Ridge. 
J. Macdonald Oxley. 

Mystery of a Xmas Hunt, {Illustrated.) 
Talbot Torrance. 


His Majesty’s Ultimatum, 
A Story of Fiji Islands. 
Louise Stockton, 




A COMEDY OP C^NTERPLOTS. 

BY EDGAR FAWCETT. 


N that part of Second 
Avenue, not far be- 
low Fourteenth Street, 
which of late has be- 
come the local prey 
of shabby boarding- 
houses and occasional 
tawdry beer-taverns 
as well, there stood 
several years ago the state- 
ly old mansion of the Van 
Twillers. Here one of the 
sweetest young maids in 
the whole metropolis had 
been born and reared. 
Her name was Lina Van T wil- 
ier, shortened from Evangeline, 
though now, in her nineteenth 
year, she would sometimes won- 
der that anything so worthy and 
flippant as an actual nickname had ever 
been bestowed upon her by her two 
austere guardians. 

These were a brother and sister of her 
late father, to whom she had been con- 
flded as a very young orphan and heiress 
longer ago than she could at all clearly 
recollect. Since that time Mr. Arcula- 
rius Van T wilier and his sister. Miss 
Cornelia, had striven with zeal if not dis- 
cretion to protect the child of their de- 
ceased kinsman. They were both as 
gaunt and gray as Lina was blooming 
and blonde. They had made the girl’s 




12 


OUTING LIB NARY, 


life quite loveless and joyless, though 
mutually convinced that they had bless- 
ed her by the fondest and most duteous 
regard. Once upon a time they had both 
been youthful themselves (though you 
would scarcely have suspected it from 
their present grimness, dryness and sal- 
lowness), but now they had wholly for- 
gotten that long-past period. Aging 
gracelessly and harshly while Lina grew 
up into girlhood, they had frowned upon 
all the rapid and marked social changes 
in the city of their birth as though these 
were symptoms of decay rather than 
progress. 

Everything and everybody not strict- 
ly of Knickerbocker stock they frown- 
ed upon, it seemed to poor Lina, as 
either trivial or wicked. The girl often 
thought that they would have prevented 
the occasional visits of her uncle, Mr. 
Simeon Gansevoort, and his daughter, 
Rosalie, if such a step had not been one 
fraught with barbarism ; for Mr. Ganse- 
voort was her mother’s only brother, and 
came, besides, of an early English line- 
age that these Second Avenue kinsfolk 
were bound to respect. Thrilling Lina 
with envy, Rosalie Gansevoort would 
bring her Parisian bonnets and gowns 
into the prim, antiquated rooms of the 
drowsy old house, and send her silvery 
laughter pealing through the heavy ma- 
hogany doorways and along the dark- 
ened, slim-banistered halls. Her father 
would sometimes come with her — a care- 
less, graceful man, with that foreign air 
which the American gets after years of 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. IB 



residence abroad. He pitied his young- 
niece, just as Rosalie pitied her, and 
while stroking his long yellow mustache 
with one white hand, he would often 
furtively watch her and think how pretty 
she was, and how like her dead mother, 
and wonder what on earth he could do 
to get her out of this damp old hole of a 


VAN TWILLER. 


14 


dtlllNG LIBiRAlRY. 


house and away from these two wrinkled 
old dragons, Arcularius and Cornelia. 

Of course he could do nothing. Miss 
Cornelia had a way of staring at his 
dark-eyed and damask-cheeked daugh- 
ter as though she considered both her 
garb and her manners iniquitous, while 
Van T wilier gave strong signs of shar- 
ing these hostile views. His occasional 
visits both bored and amused Ganse- 
voort. It chanced that one afternoon 
the latter made bold enough to say : 

“ Now that Lina has got to be nine> 
teen, she really should take her proper 
place in society.” 

Miss Cornelia and her brother ex- 
changed a swift, meaning glance. Lina 
and her cousin, Rosalie, were seated at 
some distance away, conversing in low 
tones. With a perfunctory and solemn 
air the hosts of Mr. and Mrs. Gansevoort 
had received them, here in this large, 
gloomy drawing-room, not one of whose 
details of appointment had been altered 
for at least two decades. Van T wilier 
gave a harsh little cough, and stroked 
his sharp, clean-shaven chin sullenly. 

“Not at all, Simeon,” he dissented, 
“ Evangeline’s guardian will not permit 
her to mix among the pell-mell masses 
of modern New York society.” 

“No, indeed!” abetted Miss Cor- 
nelia, with crisp emphasis. 

Faintly smiling, Gansevoort leaned 
back in the hard-bottomed little cloth 
armchair, which he had selected as the 
most comfortable that the room con- 
tained. 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 15 


“ Good heavens, my dear friends !”he 
murmured, “ what if New York/^;^7 the 
same as it was fifty years ago ? Must 
the town stop growing because you want 
to stay small ? Can’t we have any Cen- 
tral Park because you once preferred 
Bowling Green ? Must we suppress 
Fifth Avenue because you were born in 
Second ? I suppose you’re both pre- 
pared to call the Brooklyn Bridge a 
crime, eh, and the Riverside Drive an 
outrage ? ” 

This was good-humoredly said, but it 
made the brother and sister each draw 
themselves up with irate stiffness. 

“ If you forget your old Dutch birth 
and connections,” Miss Cornelia tartly 
sniffed, “ we, Simeon, do 7tot ! ” 

“ Right, sister,” muttered Van Twiller. 
His hard, small eyes fixed themselves 
on Gansevoort’s bland face and list- 
less figure as he continued: “ We 
haven’t spent years and years in foreign 
countries, ignoring our own! ” 

Gansevoort laughed a mellow laugh. 
“ Better do that, surely, ” he said, “than 
live down here out of the world alto- 
gether, like two hermit crabs. But in 
the name of all that is sensible, what 
are you going to do with Lina? She’s 
worth a clear million if she’s worth a 
dime. You don’t mean that, with her 
good looks and gay spirits, you’ll go on 
dressing her like a dowdy and not let- 
ting her see any male creature except 
the plumber and gas-fitter! It’s only 
human, you know, to think 3lie 

should marry 


16 


OUTING LIB BABY. 


And then Gansevoort, whose sense of 
humor was nothing if not keen, recalled 
the celibacy and spinsterhood of his two 
present auditors, and almost broke into 
a shout of that buoyant laughter which 
his best friends relished for its rare, 
spontaneous outflow. While he was 
decorously controlling himself he heard 
the crisp tones of Miss Cornelia to this 
effect : 

“We hope to arrange an excellent 
marriage for Evangeline ; but not until 
she is about thirty years of age. We’ve 
a good while to consider the matter, 
Simeon, and that seems to us ample 
time.” 

“But during those years,” politely 
suggested Gansevoort, “ your charming 
niece may have concluded to make her 
own selection.” 

The Van Twillers took no notice of 
this remark ; perhaps it appealed to 
them in the light of too piteous a flip- 
pancy. Arcularius, following the thread 
of his sister’s avowal for a moment, 
now answered : 

“Yes, Cornelia is quite right. And 
at this particular period we’re concerned 
with the painting of that portrait men- 
tioned in her father’s will.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Ganse- 
voort, “your brother and my brother- 
in-law, poor old eccentric Bartholo- 
mew! stipulated that his child should 
have her portrait painted before she 
reached the age of twenty.” 

‘ ‘ A most absurd proviso, too I ” grum- 

bled Miss Cornelia, 


IN LOVE ! OH, ROSALIE! (Page m 








\ 





IS 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


‘ ‘ Oh, entirely ! ” assented her brother ; 
“and with such a spice of bitterness in 
it! ‘Before the age of twenty,’ ran the 
words of that special paragraph in 
Bartholomews’ will, ‘ I wish that my 
child shall have added her portrait exe- 
cuted by the most prominent portrait- 
painter of her native city, to the several 
remarkably ugly ones which I bequeath 
her. ’ It’s to be hoped Bartholomew had 
forgotten, at the time of inserting this 
clause, that Cornelia’s and mine were 
among the canvasses thus referred to.” 

These final words were spoken with 
great sourness, and their general mean- 
ing struck -Gansevoort as so thoroughly 
droll that he felt the danger of giving 
at any moment a sacrilegious roar of 
laughter. Instead of this, however, he 
made the effort composedly to ask: 

“ And pray, have you secured your 
portrait-painter ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Van Twiller. “ We’ve 
engaged a gentleman who appears to 
be the reigning metropolitan success in 
that line His name is Maturin Meade 

Do you know about him?” 

“Oh, I’ve heard,” said Gansevoort. 
‘ ‘ He has the indorsement of Paris where 
he studied for several years. Every- 
body says he’s done very admirable 
work. And has Lina given him any 
sittings yet? ” 

Meanwhile Lina herself, in lov/-toned, 
innocent babble to Rosalie, was declar- 
ing: “Oh, Mr. Meade is just lovely ! 
He’s dark and tall, with a silky black 
mustache, and eyes like diamonds!" 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 19 


“My dear,” said Rosalie, “you’re in 
love with your portrait-painter.” 

“ In love ! Oh, Rosalie ! ” At this 
point Lina had crimsoned and was 
drooping her gaze. Then, in a sudden 
fit of bashful candor, she went on : “I 
must tell you everything. It’s all hap- 
pened so suddenly. We went to visit him 
at his studio, you know, and I — I couldn’t 
help liking him ever so much before he’d 
spoken ten words to us. Then, after- 
ward, he came here to — to make pre- 
liminary sketches of me.” 

“ Preliminary sketches! ” repeated Ro- 
salie, with her most wordly air. She 
had seen a good deal of life and fashion 
for a girl of her age. She was the idol 
of her patrician but somewhat Bohe- 
mian father, had lived abroad with him 
during most of her motherless child- 
hood, and from her birth till now had 
been permitted by him to do almost 
precisely what her capricious nature 
pleased. Perhaps Gansevoort would 
never have indulged her as he did if he 
had not reposed in her the most secure 
confidence. Only one tendency in her 
gave him the least uneasiness, and that 
was her fondness for music and musical 
people. But this anxiety, as he some- 
times gayly conceded, was, after all, a 
kind of prejudiced “fad.” Two of his 
near feminine relations had had the same 
musical passion, and they had both mar- 
ried musicians, and married very badly 
indeed. One was a divorced wife, living 
on her kin, and one had gone to her 
grave, declared Rumor, with a broken 


20 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


heart. More than once Gansevoort had 
raised a warning forefinger and said to 
Rosalie in his most earnest way, which 
certain folk were apt to think even then 
half jestfnl : “ My dear girl, I shall 

never oppose your marrying any fellow 
you really care for, provided he’s a gen- 
tleman and not cursed with stupid vices. 
But remember one thing, please, he 
must not be a professional musician, 
singer, player, music teacher, or any- 
thing resembling it. If you should fall 
in love that way, Rose, I’ll disinherit 
you, dear, as sure as you’re born. Old 
Capulet in the play will be a lamb of 
mercy compared with me ! ” 

But Rosalie, though perhaps the 
timid and impulsive confession that her 
cousin had just begun may have re- 
minded her, for certain reasons, of this 
familiar parental monition, now showed 
every sign of being solely absorbed by 
Lina’s forthcoming little history. “ Pre- 
liminary sketches, my dear ! ” she again 
repeated. “But that isn’t at all the 
style adopted by portrait-painters. I 
had my picture done in Paris, you know, 
by a famous French artist ; so I’m con- 
versant with the usual method. Why 
didn’t you sit for him in his studio ? ” 
“Oh, I’m going to,” hastened Lina, 
in her eager semitone. “ But he comes 
here now — ^he’s been four or five times — 
just to sketch me as well as he can, until 
his wrist gets well.” 

“ Until his wrist gets well ! ” echoed 
Rosalie, with great suddenness and an 
odd, startled look. “ How strange ! ” 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 21 


Why strange ? ” queried Lina. 

‘‘ Oh, nothing. Go on.” 

“ He sprained it, or bruised it, or 
something, only a little while before we 
first met, and he can’t do any really 
serious work on that account.” . 

“ Oh, indeed ! Well ? ” 

“ And — and so he comes here with his 
portfolio in the mornings, Rosalie,” con- 
tinued Lina, with her blue eyes spark- 
ling and her color still very tell-tale. 
“ Either uncle or aunt is alwa 5 ^s in the 
room — well, not always. One or the 
other has left us alone for a few min- 
utes, now and then. And you can’t 
think what those few minutes have 
meant to us ! Oh,, Rose, he — he loves 
me and I love him ! He’s told me so, 
and I — I’ve told him so, and I’ll never 
marry anybody else — no, not if they try 
to make my life even duller and less 
like other girls’ than they’ve tried for 
years ! I — I don’t zvant to run azuay, 
Rose ! That seems so dreadful, doesn’t 
it? But I’m sure that if dear Matu- 
rin should tell them of our attachment 
they’d scowl and scream ‘ no,’ just be- 
cause he isn’t a Knickerbocker and enor- 
mously rich. Oh, but they forget I’m 
of age and my own mistress ! I mean 
to show them that pretty plainly when 
the time comes ! ” 

“ And when will the time come, 
Lina ? ” asked Rosalie. This access of 
pluck and resolve, in a spirit usually so 
yielding, filled her both with admiration 
and surprise. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” 


22 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


quavered Lina, more dramatically than 
as if in fear. “ But it can’t be far oif ! 
Everything depends on him. He means 
to have made up his mind, once and for 
all, by the next time we meet.” 

This answer struck Rosalie as cer- 
tainly a somewhat vague one. She 
could not then pursue the subject, how- 
ever ; for her father suddenly drew 
near, calling out in his mellow, indolent 
voice : 

“ Rose, you vixen ! where are you? 
It’s nearly six o’clock, and we’re both 
engaged to dine out this evening. 
Come, now — no more love-secrets be- 
tween you and Lina ! ” 

Just as Miss Cornelia gave an audible 
gasp at this daring pleasantry, Lina 
bent toward her cousin and said in 
swift, faint tones : 

“ Promise me you’ll not breathe all 
this to a living soul ! ” 

“ Of course I promise,” Rosalie acqui- 
esced. 

The pathetic little tale told by Lina 
haunted her cousin for more reasons 
than one. She would in any case have 
keenly sympathized with her close- 
guarded young relation ; but now Lina’s 
pretty confidences dwelt in her mind, 
interblended with thoughts regarding 
the semblance between their two sep- 
arate fates. “What has put you into 
such a sober humor ? ” asked her father, 
as they strolled up toward Stuyvesant 
Square in the wintr)^ but sunny weather. 
And then, as the girl gave some sort of 
vague reply, he proceeded ; “ Oh, the 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS, 23 


stagnation and somberness of that Van 
Twiller household are enough to depress 
a butterfly ! Poor little Lina ! my heart 
aches for her.” 

On reaching the handsome Madison 
Avenue home where she and her father 
now dwelt, Rosalie found that she had 
but scant time to dress for the dinner at 
which she was soon expected tc appear. 

With a nervous sigh she gave herself 
into the hands of an elderly servant, a 
gray-haired and placid-faced English 
woman, named Lydia, who had been her 
nurse ever since she was a child, and 
who now played the part of her maid- 
servant, though with a freedom rare in 
even an adherent so trusted. 

“ Lydia ! ” at length exclaimed her 
young mistress, with unwonted tremors 
of voice, “ I — I hardly feel in spirits to 
go at all this evening.” 

“ Oh, but you must. Miss Rosalie ! ” 
came the solemn and rather curt re- 
sponse. “ It’s a dinner, you know, and 
there’s no avoiding it at this late hour.” 

Rosalie turned and surveyed the 
speaker with troubled eyes. “ What is 
the matter with you ? ” she questioned. 
“ You seem — funny, somehow." 

‘ I don’t feel at all funny,” returned 
Lydia, with a solemnity that held vol- 
umes of dignity. 

Oh, Lydia ! ” cried Rosalie, throwing 
both arms about her old servant’s neck, 
“ I’m miserable ! And one great reason 
is because I’ve — I’ve been keeping some- 
thing from you ! ” 

L^dia^ who would havo diod for her 


24 : 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


master’s only child, and who was in all 
ways the essence of fidelity, now shook 
her head with a really repelling* air. 

“ I’ve known it all along,” she said, 
showing a coldness that her hearer well 
understood as only a certain phase of 
affection. “ Don’t you suppose I haven’t 
noticed, please. And it’s about that 
gentleman with the yellow beard that’s 
been coming here lately in the morn- 
ings — in the mornings,” continued 
Lydia, with awful gloom, “ when * you 
was dead sure. Miss Rosalie, that your 
father had gone out and wouldn’t be 
back till lunch-time.” 

Yes — that’s right,” returned Rosalie, 
drawing her old nurse to a side of the 
bed, where they both presently sat, 
while she held one of Lydia’s hands be- 
tween both her own. “ It is about Mr. 
Lorrimore Lynn. He’s a great com- 
poser, Lydia- — or at least a very cele- 
brated one. I mean he makes music ; he 
writes things that are played at concerts.” 

“ And you met him at one of those 
concerts?” asked Lydia. “I’ve heard 
your father say that he wished you didn’t 
care so much for going to ’em. He’d 
rather you wouldn’t be so fond ” 

“ Of music ? — yes, I understand, Lydia. 
But I shall always adore it. Music is in 
me, and there’s no changing a person’s 
taste. But oh, Lydia, it isn’t that. It’s 
my horrible conduct. I’ve been doing 
what I should despise in any other girl, 
if she had done it.” 

“ Mercy ! ” fell frightenedly from her 
companion. “ What do you mean 1” 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 25 



“ OH, LYDIA ! ” 

“ This, Lydia. Sometime ago I went 
to an afternoon music ale — it was at Mrs. 
Ashburton’s — where I heard a composi- 
tion played (something they call a sonata, 
but which I might explain to you for- 
ever and not make your dear, stupid old 


20 


OUTING LISnABY, 


head any the wiser about it) that de- 
lighted me immensely. I kept thinking 
of it and humming scraps of it to myself 
for days afterwards, and all the time 
thinking how I’d like to meet the man 
who composed it.” 

“ Oh, Miss Rosalie ! ” 

“ Hush ! you haven’t heard anything 
so terrible yet, Lydia ! ... Well I got 
the sonata, 'and played it here at home, 
and liked it more than ever. At the 
music-shop where I bought it they told 
me its author, Mr. Lorrimore Lynn, was 
a young man, and very good-looking. 
vSo one day, Lydia, I sat down and wrote 
him a letter.” 

“ Gracious ! ” 

“ Why, that wasn’t anything much to 
do ! Celebrities like Mr. Lynn receive 
letters every day from all sorts of people. 
But I went farther, Lydia. I ” 

“ Farther ! ” 

“Yes, I — I sent him my photograph 
along with the letter. It was a very 
cordial letter, and — and it shyly but 
rather plainly hinted that I’d be at 
home between eleven and one the next 
morning ; that’s the time, you know, 
when papa’s never at home. And 
horrible as it all was, Lydia, I wouldn’t 
have done it if papa hadn’t always so 
detested the idea of my knowing gentle- 
men who are musical — young gentle- 
men, of course. But oh, it’s been horri- 
bly fast in me ! — I admit that.” 

“ Fast ! ” shivered poor Lydia. “ You’d 
better find some new word. That don’t 
mean half enough.” 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 27 


“ Still,” Rosalie persisted, with plain- 
tive stubbornness and a forlornly self- 
defensive look, “I’d have made a clean 
breast of it all to papa days ago if I 
hadn’t been so afraid he’d part us. For 
we’re engaged, Lydia — yes, actually! 
He’s just as clever as he is handsome, 
and the most perfectly well-bred person 
I’ve ever met. His family are Phila- 
delphians, and he’s never cared to go 
out much in New York, but he could go 
anywhere if he chose.” 

“ I wish he’d go back home 1 ” fumed 
Lydia. 

“ Come, now, get me my dinner-gown, 
or I shall be terribly late for the Arm- 
strongs’,” exclaimed Rosalie, rising. 
“And you mustn’t be angry at me, Lydia 
— you mustn't ! ” With a sudden access 
of willful hauteur she pursued : “It 
won’t do the slightest good, and if you 
tell papa you’ll only make matters worse. 
I think you’ve received my story very 
coldly, considering that you’ve known 
me since I was a baby, and might be 
supposed" (here Rosalie drew herself up 
with a grand demeanor of rebuke) “ to 
— to sympathize with me in my troubles.” 

“ Oh, I do ! I do. Miss Rosalie ! ” cried 
Lydia ; and then the girl found herself 
suddenly enfolded in her nurse’s arms, 
patted on the shoulder, called pet names, 
and even quietly wept over. 

Touched to the soul, Rosalie soon 
said : “ It isn’t so very bad, after all, is 
it? You surely don’t think I’m a des- 
perate case ? ” 

“ Not,” trembled the reply of Lydia, 


28 


OUTING TABU ARY, 


“if you’ll tell your father everything, 
and tell him at once ! Promise me you’ll 
do so ! Promise me, promise me ! ” 

“ I’d like immensely to do so,” falter- 
ed Rosalie. “ But, oh, Lydia, how if he 
should say ” 

“ Never mind, darling, what you’re 
afraid he might say. Tell him to-night, 
after you get home. Throw yourself on 
his mercy — on his love ! ” 

Rosalie started, and while drawing 
backward, scanned the sweet, plain, 
faded face. There glowed to her, in 
that moment, new revelations of an in- 
finite devotion and tenderness. 

“ I — I believe I will do it,” she said, 
and burst into tears. 

But Lydia, instantly drawing forth a 
handkerchief, began to wipe her young 
idol’s eyes. “ Oh, oh, this will never 
do ! ” she scolded, though with tones that 
were the droll opposite of reprimand. 
“ You’ll never be fit to dine out if you 
don’t stop crying right straight away ! ” 
A little later Rosalie went to join her 
fellow-guests at dinner ; and during this 
same hour, as it chanced, her chosen 
suitor, sauntering along the upper part 
of Fifth Avenue, not far from the apart- 
ments which he occupied in company 
with a treasured friend, looked at the 
crystal-blue sky, in which hung, above 
the dark housetops, a full winter-moon, 
pale as a globular fragment of ice, and 
felt himself preyed upon by the dreari- 
est and most remorseful thoughts. 

As the silvery dusk smote his face 
you could see both its beauty and man- 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS, 29 


liness. If it had weak touches of feature 
these were none the less winsome, and 
his blonde beard and large, soft eyes 
gave his appearance an accent both 
amiable and picturesque. 

The evening air had a keen tang of 
cold in it. But he forgot to note this ; 
he was remembering something that 
chilled him a great deal more. If his 
reflections could have been translated 
into definite language they would have 
sounded thus : 

“ One morning, not very long ago, I 
opened a letter of my friend and fellow- 
lodger, Lorrimore Lynn, by mistake. 
I, Maturin Meade, surely a gentleman 
hitherto, though perhaps a rather infe- 
rior portrait-painter, did this. Well, 
what followed ? The letter began ‘ My 
dear sir,’ and I had read but a few lines 
when I came to the words, ‘ your ex- 
quisite Twilight Sonata has so captivated 
me that I play it through at least five 
times every day.’ At that point some- 
thing stiff on the reverse side of the 
page I had perused dropped upon the 
floor. Already I had seen my mistake, 
and was full of the most apologetic feel- 
ing toward Lorrimore. But the some- 
thing that had dropped proved to be the 
photograph of a beautiful young girl. 
I have seen many beautiful young girls 
— Heaven knows the world is full of 
them ! — but I had somehow never felt 
any living one stir me to the soul as 
did this counterfeit presentment. And 
soon, moved by what all sinners like 
myself would term, no doubt, an uncon- 


so 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


trollable impulse, I gave way to the 
most absurd jealousy of Lorrimore. 
Almost before I had realized the full 
knavery of the act, I had destroyed this 
letter addressed to him, and determined, 
while retaining the photograph, to pre- 
sent myself on the following day at the 
address given by its original. Once 
having plunged into such a base course 
of deceit, I found it a fearfully easy one 

to pursue And so the visit was paid 

next day, and she for whom that pictiire 
had been taken proved that it had slan- 
dered her actual charms. Shall I ever 
forget our first meeting, our first talk 
together ! Every minute a confession of 
the truth trembled upon my tongue, and 
yet the honesty and candor of her love- 
liness turned me into a coward. I felt 
that if I told her I was Maturin Meade, 
an artist, and that I merely lived in 
the same suite of apartments with Lor- 
rimore Lynn, composer of her adored 
Twilight Sonata, she would rise indig- 
nantly and drive me from her presence 
with scorn. During that first visit she 
implored me to play her the Sonata ; 
she even plucked me by the sleeve and 
tried to draw me toward the open piano 
near at hand. And I, who scarcely 
know one note from another, what could 
I do but sink deeper yet in the mire of 
base deception ? I therefore told her 
(and with how keen a thrill of self-dis- 
gust !) that I had recently sprained my 
left wrist in a way that prevented me 
from even touching the piano. And 
a little later came her disclosure con- 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 31 


ceming her father’s prejudice against 
her knowing musicians. This, I well 
remember, gave me a kind of comfort. 
She, too, was dealing in deception, 
after all. . . . And so the weeks have 
been gliding on, and now the end 
has come. I worship her, and she has 
sworn to me a hundred times that she 
will never marry any one but myself. 
And I — miserable coward that I am ! — 
should at once go to her father and tell 
him all. And yet — and yet, I dare not ! 
It is not so much dread of Mr. Ganse- 
voort’s wrath ; it is the thought of her 
contempt as well. And then the confes- 
sional duty which I owe to Lorrimore — 
that friend of friends ! Ah, it’s with him 
that I should begin. And yet — the mor- 
tification ! If there is one thing he values 
above all others it is personal honor ; 
and the next is his reputation as a com- 
poser. He will never forgive me for 
having soiled one and tampered with 
the other. Still, I must speak to him 
— I must have it all out with him this 
very night ! ” 

His final determination had not a 
stimulating effect on Maturin Meade’s 
appetite. He partook of a very delicate 
and solitary dinner in the cafe of an 
hotel not far from his own apartments. 
When it is chronicled that he quaffed a 
small bottle of Burgundy, slight other 
details of his repast need to be mention- 
ed. Quitting the restaurant, he repaired 
to one of the large and lofty apartment 
houses which face on Central Park. 
The steam-heated hall made him utter 




OUTING LIBRARY. 


a sigh of displeasure ; it was so stifling, 
so American in its prodigality of high 
temperature, after the crisp and nip- 
ping refreshment of the moonlit air out- 
side ! He asked the neat, alert youth 
who managed the elevator whether Mr. 
Lynn had returned yet, and was answer- 
ed in the negative while they flew up 
together past the ornate gratings that 
served as portals to the various land- 
ings of the stone-floored, fireproof halls. 
Presently he entered the suite of rooms 
which for more than a year past he and 
Lorrimore Lynn had mutually occupied. 
His own studio came first, a chamber 
opulent in choice tapestries, rugs and 
curios, which he had picked up during 
a long residence abroad. He glanced, 
while sinking into an armchair and 
taking the first puff of a new-lighted 
cigarette, at his draped easel, where 
stood a canvas on which he had scarcely 
been able to paint for many days. Lor- 
rimore, it now occurred to him, had not 
only done very little playing of late, but 
had seemed oddly depressed. There, 
just a step away, was his music-room, 
with its two pianos, its pretty Louis 
Quatorze decorations, and its bronze 
tripod in one corner, holding cards to 
teas, receptions, dances. Why did Lor- 
rimore pay no heed, nowadays, to these 
polite social advances ? Assuredly he 
went nowhere, for had not he himself 
languidly admitted as much not long 
ago? Could it be possible that Lorri- 
more was also unhappily in love ? If 
this were true, his own forthcoming 


A COMEDY OE COUNTERPLOTS. 33 


declaration would prove easier by far. 

In a few minutes more Lorrimore 
came quietly into the room. He threw 
off his overcoat without a word, and lit 
a cigarette at the glass chimney of the 
rose-shaded lamp only a few inches 
from his friend’s elbow. His dark face, 
with its large, wide-apart eyes, dreamy 
and yet radiant, like those of many 
music-lovers, wore an anxious and 
melancholy look. As he glanced over 
his shoulder at Maturin, their gaze met, 
and for some reason the contact seem- 
ed to embarrass them both. Lorrimore 
moved toward the fireplace, on whose 
lustrous andirons lay two or three half- 
consumed logs, and seizing the poker 
from a near stand, wrought a ruddy 
blaze with a few sharp thrusts of it. 
Then, as if the sound thus made had 
not served adequately to break the 
oppressive silence, he half-turned, ad- 
dressing his companion. 

“You’ve dined, I suppose, Maturin?” 

“Yes,” came the answer. “Have 
you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

More silence. “ How,” thought Mat- 
urin Meade, “ shall I tell him of my 
abominable treachery ? I 7nust begin — 
somehow.” 

Lorrimore Lynn slowly strolled from 
the fireplace to the big lamp-lit table, 
beside which his friend was seated. 

He opened at random one of the many 
books that were scattered about it, and 
while listlessly turning over the leaves 
of this, heard a voice within his brain, 


OUTING LIBRAE f. 


34 

as it were, commanding, monitory, in- 
flexibly stern. “ Open your heart,” en- 
joined the voice, “and confess every- 
thing ! It is true that Maturin Meade is 
the soul of honor, and may never for- 
give you when he learns that you have 
dared to assume his name and to pose 
before Lina Van T wilier and her two 
old guardians as artist and portrait- 
painter. It is time you got yourself out 
of this hateful snarl, and though Mat- 
urin values his fame in art beyond any- 
thing except his repute as a perfect 
gentleman, your right course is to com- 
mence by first imploring his pardon, and 
then seeking his counsel.” 

There happened to be another easy- 
chair a few paces from that which Mat- 
urin occupied. Lorrimore left off fin- 
gering the leaves of the book he had 
opened, and while sending forth a great 
cloud of cigarette- smoke, sought it and 
sank within its depths. As he did so a 
mournful memory crossed him of how of- 
ten in previous months they two had sat 
here, side by side in these very chairs, and 
talked together of their separate artistic 
dreams, accomplishments, hopes, and 
their former residence in foreign lands. 

“I must speak now,” said Lorrimore 
to himself. 

And precisely at the same moment' 
Maturin was saying to his own thoughts : 

“ Here is my opportunity. I have no 
further excuse for delay. Come what 
will, I must speak now ! ” 


II. 


S might naturally 
have occurred in 
a juncture so odd 
as the present one, 
both friends at- 
tempted to speak 
simultaneously. 

“ I wish to tell 

you, Maturin ” 

“ I’ve something to speak about, Lor- 
rimore ” 

And then they both paused, ^taring 
at one another. Lorrimore, whose tem- 
perament was at all times the more im- 
petuous of the two, now leaned across 
the tufted arm of his chair, and agita- 
tedly pursued : 

“What I want to say, Maturin, is 
something that I’m only too afraid^ 
you’ll hate and despise me for when 
you’ve heard it.” 

“ Why, Lorry, my boy ” 

“ Oh, Maturin, I’ve been the sorriest 
of scoundrels ! One morning last month 
I — I behaved toward you with the very 
rankest villainy.” 

“ Good heavens, Lorrimore ! ” 

“Yes — I can’t call it by any other 
name ; I conscientiously can’t ! And 
ever since then I’ve been deceiving you 
— ah, perhaps you’ll say, when you’ve 
heard everything, that deceiving is far 
too weak a word ! ” 

Maturin Meade had flushed to his 



se 


O UTING LIBBARf, 


forehead and then grown pale again. 
‘‘This — this,” he stammered, “strikes 
me like some eurious dream.” 

“ And well it may strike you so ! ” 
cried Lorrimore, totally misunderstand- 
ing. “ I often fail, myself, to realize 
that I could be unprincipled enough to 
assume your name.” 

“ To — assume — my — name ?” repeated 
Maturin, in a strange voice, slowly ris- 
ing. 

“There — you’re furious at me al- 
ready ! ” 

“ No, Lorrimore, not’ furious ”. . . 

Maturin dropped back into his chair, 
with blank consternation on every feat- 
ure. “I — I beg you to go on. That is all.” 

And then, with piteous precipitation, 
Lorrimore obeyed him. He told how 
Mr. and Miss Van Twiller had appeared 
in that very room, one morning, and 
mistaken him for Maturin, whom the 
servant admitting them had incorrectly 
stated to be at home. He narrated how 
it had been on the end of his tongue to 
correct this mistake, when two forceful 
agencies of temptation produced their 
speedy but restrictive effect. The first 
was Lina Gansevoort’s modest, enchant- 
ing and unique attractiveness ; the sec- 
ond was that too evident relentless and 
imposing watch-and-ward under which 
her uncle and aunt held the winsome 
little damsel at their side. 

“ If ever there was love at first sight,” 
continued Lorrimore in woebegone yet 
imploring tones, “ I fell a victim to it 
then ! These two old Van Twillers, 


A COMEDY OF C0UKTERPL0T3. 37 


Maturin, had never really asked me if I 
— if I were j/oti or not.” 

“ Indeed ? ” fell from his hearer, neu- 
trally, while he stared at the carpet. 

“ No ; they had taken for granted that 
I was you. The old spinster quite rudely 
deplored the necessity of having Lina’s 
portrait painted at all, poor girl ! and 
regretted that the measure should be 
compulsory because forced upon her 
guardian by a clause in her late father’s 
will. And then the chill, metallic voice of 
the old celibate uncle chimed in, stating 
that their young niece’s life had always 
been an extremely quiet one and that 
both he and her aunt so abominated the 
new folly and flippancy of metropolitan 
codes and customs as to feel unwilling 
that Miss Lina should mingle at all in 
the rabble of upstarts who now called 
themselves New York society, until she 
should reach an age of much greater 
discretion than that which she had 
gained at present — sa)^ thirty years, or 
thereaboutc Thirty years, Maturin — 
think of it ! I looked at the dear girl’s 
face, infantile and yet virginal, with its 
pink upper lip like a curl in the petal of 
a tea-rose, its tender mutinies of gold- 
en curls at brow and temples, and its 
blue, silver-tinted eyes, that somehow 
(absurdly enough, you may decide) made 
me think of two bars from the Evening 
Star song in “ Tannhauser.” I marked 
her flexible and graceful flgure, which 
the unmodish garb those two dragons 
had clothed her with was powerless to 
hide, and I said to myself that here was 


38 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


a youthful martyr to the merciless rigors 
of provincial caste. All this flashed 
through me, Maturin, in a few brief 
moments. And meanwhile those meek, 
magnetic eyes appealed to me with a 
potency no eloquence of my own could 
describe. I realized that here was the 
one woman I could love and be happy 
with (you recall that we have often 
talked together of our coming ‘ fates ’ ?) 
and I comprehended how hopeless would 
be the chance of my ever seeing Lina 
again if I neglected this one hazardous 
yet feasible means. ‘ Do it,’ the dear 
eyes seemed to say, and like a rascal, 
like a madman, like a fool, like anything 
you may please to call me, I did it ! ” 

At this point Maturin rose. He went 
to the fireplace and leaned over it, with 
forehead pressed against the mantel 
and one lifted hand partly concealing 
his face. 

“You did it,” his voice came to Lor- 
rimore, behind the screening hand ; 
“ and what followed ? ” 

Lorrimore sent a despairing look 
toward the concealed face. Too pah 
pably, he concluded, Maturin Meade 
was pierced by horror and disgust. For- 
giveness could not be dreamed of. But 
at least pity might be sought and im- 
plored. 

“ Nothing but anxiety and remorse 
have followed,” Lorrimore now cried. 
“ I go there every other morning, and 
make believe that I am preparing some 
devilish nonsense that I call preliminary 
sketches. I don’t know any more about 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS, 89 


drawing than — well, than yon know 
about music. But I see Lina, and now 
and then I snatch a chance to speak 
with her. The Van Twillers don’t catch 
a glimpse of my portfolio ; it’s some- 
thing I’ve borrowed from you ; its 
blank sheets are scrawled over with the 
most ridiculous lines. I keep telling 
them (and, alas, Lina is just as much 
fooled as either of the two vigilant 
jailers !) that I have sprained my right 
wrist, and” — 

“ Your right wrist ! ” now shot from 
Maturin, as he thrust a hand into either 
pocket and quickly moved toward the 
yonng composer. “Oh, it was your 
right wrist, then ! ” he pursued, with a 
kind of wild treble break in his voice 
as he paused before his friend. “ Mine,” 
he soon resumed, “ was my left wrist ! ” 

Springing up from his chair, Lorri- 
more swept the speaker’s face with 
searching scrutiny. He was beset with 
a fear that his friend had either sud- 
denly got into some sort of hysteric 
state of anger, or that he had concluded 
to wrap his reproaches and arraign- 
ments in a scorching and inexorable 
sarcasm. “ Maturin,” he cried, with 
tears in his breaking voice, “ do you 
mean that you have no possible pardon 
for me ? ” 

And then, to his amazement, Maturin 
threw both arms about his neck. 

“ Lorrimore, Lorrimore ! How ex- 
traordinary it all is ! We’re a pair of 
rascals ! This explains all the odd cool- 
ness between us for days past ! Come 


40 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


and stand here with me beside the fire. 
I’m cold ; I’m shivering with — with — 
well, if you please, with triumph and 
satisfaction ! ” He now dragged Lorri- 
more Lynn by both hands to the big 
bearskin rug in front of the hearth. 
And all this time his amazed hearer 
had been swiftly assuring himself that 
his own tidings had wrought the abrupt 
effect of a dementia no less unforeseen 
than sorrowful. 

When he had dropped Lorrimore’s 
hands and had fronted him, Maturin be- 
came much more coherent. 

“I can’t blame you, Lorrimore — I 
can’t, for I haven’t the right ! " 

“Hot the right, Maturin? What on 
earth do you mean? You — you just 
spoke of triumph and satisfaction. How 
can you possibly feel either ? ” 

“ How ? For the best of reasons, my 
friend.” 

“Your friend! You still call me 
that ?” 

“I shouldn’t presume to — to accuse 
you.” And here Maturin, with both 
hands momentarily flung into the air 
and a smile of blended irony and amuse- 
ment, added tumultuously : 

“ Lorrimore, haven’t I told you that 
we’re — we’re a pair of rascals ?” 

Lorrimore receded a little. It was 
plain that he now quite doubted the 
sanity of his associate. “Yes, Maturin, 
you’ve told me so, but I ” — 

“ But you thought me out of my head. 
Ah, so you might well have done. Now, 
listen ”... 



“THEY GRASPED ONE ANOTHER S HANDS 


42 


OUTING LIB BABY, 


What we know concerning Maturin 
Meade’s course of conduct toward Rosa- 
lie Gansevoort, Maturin now made re- 
lentlessly plain to Lorrimore. 

Lorrimore, dazed into silence at first, 
finally found a voice. 

^‘Can this be possible? Then we’ve 
both betrayed one another ? My dear 
Maturin, isn’t it too — too preposterous ? ” 
And then, like a flash, they grasped 
one another’s hands and burst into 
shouts of strange and feverish mirth . . . 

But the more serious side of the ques- 
tion soon occurred to them. For a long 
time they talked quite gravely together. 
The folly, the absurdit}^, and in a way 



“THEY COULD ONLY SEE HIS BACK.” (Page 4TJ 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 43 


even the pathos of the whole situation, 
with its complexity and yet its almost 
farcical simplicity, combined to present 
for them a picture in experience by no 
means trifling. 

“ There’s no doubt of it,” at length 
said Maturin ; “ we are both in a horri- 
ble muddle ! We’ve behaved idiotically, 
and our duty is to beg forgiveness of 
the girls we have so scandalously fooled.” 

“My dear fellow,” muttered Lorri- 
more, “ the Van Twillers will never per- 
mit me to marry Lina — never ! ” 

“Then elope with her,” said Maturin. 
“ You’re not by any means a pauper, and 
if she’ll consent to marry you in that 
fashion, it will be far better than suf- 
fering the anguish of losing her alto- 
gether.” 

“ Elope with her ! ” cried Lorrimore. 
“ Good heavens, my boy, you forget 
that I’m an impostor as I now stand ! 
She thinks me somebody else.” 

“True,” replied Maturin. “And so 
does Rosalie think me ! Oh, the whole 
condition of things couldn’t be much 
worse than it is ! Well, all we can do is 
to confess the truth.” 

“ And be despised as frauds ! ” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t know,” sighed 
Maturin. “ It seems to me that Rosalie 
will be pitiful when I’ve told her every- 
thing.” 

“ But how about her father ? ” came 
the answer from Lorrimore. “Will/^^ 
prove so pitiful, do you think .? Or 
may he not prove most harshly the 
reverse ? ” 


u 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


On the following day, at about eleven 
in the morning, Mr. Gansevoort paid a 
visit to these two young gentlemen ; 
or rather, it should be recorded, the 
father of Rosalie asked for Mr. Lorri- 
more Lynn, and was received by him. 
Gansevoort was excessively angry ; Ro- 
salie had given him her fullest confi- 
dence after coming back home on the 
previous night. He had presented him- 
self for the purpose of telling Lynn that 
he desired no further attentions on the 
part of that individual toward his 
daughter, and his manner, though stem 
and cold, was entirely courteous. 

“ Mr. Lynn,” he said, “ my daughter 
has confessed to me her imprudence in 
seeking to know you, and also the ac- 
quaintanceship which has resulted from 
her foolish step. I must tell you frankly, 
sir, that I do not wish her to marry a 
musician. Of course I know the place 
you hold in the musical world, and 
merely to hear your name is to under- 
stand just who you are. But ” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Gansevoort,” here 
broke in Lorrimore, with a pained smile, 
“but I really must tell you^ with all 
possible expedition, that I have never in 
my life had the pleasure of meeting the 
young lady to whom you refer.” 

Simeon Gansevoort, careless and Ian-' 
guid man of the world that he was, now 
gave his yellow mustache an irritated 
pull. 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” he 
exclaimed. “ Can it be possible that I 
do not address the gentleman whom my 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 45 


daughter has been silly enough to seek, 
to flatter, to admire, and — well, if you 
please, sir — to fall stupidly in love 
with ? ” 

At this point Maturin, pale and agi- 
tated, swept aside the drapery of the 
doorway between studio and music- 
room. 

“ No, Mr. Gansevoort ! ” he exclaimed, 
“ I, Maturin Meade, am the suitor of 
Miss Rosalie ! It’s — it’s terrible for me 
to make this admission, sir, but no other 
course is left me. I — I feel guilty to 
the very soles of my feet, Mr. Ganse- 
voort. I — I don’t think any man on 
earth could be more repentant, either. 
Perhaps my real name, Maturin Meade, 
may also be known to you. I’m an 
artist ” 

“And a very admirable one,” Ganse- 
voort coolly struck in. “ I chanced to 
have bought one of your pictures last 
year, Mr. Meade.” Here the speak- 
er polished a pair of eyeglasses quite 
leisurely with a handkerchief of much 
flneness, and then put them on with a 
good deal of composure, which he some- 
how contrived to make excessively sar- 
castic. “I’m a collector of paintings in 
a small way,” he continued, “ and I liked 
this head of a wood-nymph, signed with 
your name. It seemed to me cheap at 
the price, Mr. Meade — but your late con- 
duct is perhaps a good deal cheaper.” 

“ Ah, sir ! ” began Maturin 

“ Excuse me,” Gansevoort insisted ; 
“ if I am not mistaken you have had the 
insolence to approach my daughter un- 


46 


OUTING LIBRAnr, 


der a false name.” 

“ Under my name ! ” cried Lorrimore, 
though with a stormy sadness that made 
Rosalie’s father start and stare. 

‘‘Really,” said Gansevoort, “this is 
very amazing.” He spoke with ex- 
treme quietude, and still remained 
seated. “ May I ask for some sort of 
further explanation ? ” 

“Ah, you’re a man of wonderful self- 
possession ! ” again exclaimed Lorri- 
more. “ Upon my word, sir, you ought 
to be frightfully angry.” 

“I am,” said Gansevoort, with a voice 
of ice. 

“ But you show it most calmly ! ” 
Maturin now almost shouted. “ Honor 
bright, sir, if you threw something at 
me, or attempted to use that cane of 
yours upon me, I don’t believe I should 
offer you the faintest resistance.” 

Gansevoort shrugged his shoulders 
and crossed his legs. “ I’m not a man 
given to violent measures,” he said, still 
glacially. “ Besides, you have received 
my request for an explanation, and per- 
haps you will have the goodness to 
grant it.” 

“ Let me explain, sir,” burst from 
Lorrimore ; but in an instant Maturin 
enforced silence upon his friend by a 
gesture and a look. 

“ Mr. Gansevoort,” the artist then be- 
gan, “ I have simply to tell you a few 
plain truths, disgraceful, if you will, 
and to myself unutterably mortifying ! ” 

Maturin now went on, speaking with 
great earnestness and absolute self-sur- 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERELOTS. 47 


Tender. But no sooner had he ended 
his impetuous narration than Lorrimore 
commenced another. All this time the 
placid face of Mr. Simeon Gansevoort 
was a study of restrained though pal- 
pable astonishment. And at last, when 
Lorrimore had finished, the visitor sud- 
denly rose from his seat and walked 
toward one of the windows. 

Maturin and Lorrimore glanced at 
each other. What did Mr. Gansevoort’s 
conduct mean ? He had concealed his 
face ; they could only see his back, and 
that trembled as if with some serious 
perturbation. 

“He — he’s ill,” said Lorrimore to 
Maturin. 

“ I — I should say so,” came the reply. 
“ Perhaps we’ve overwhelmed him, as it 
were, by — by our two recitals ! ” 

Both friends had now quitted their 
chairs, and both were in a state of new 
and forlorn disturbance. 

“ Overwhelmed me ! ” here sounded 
the half-strangled voice of Gansevoort. 
He turned, a little giddily and stagger- 
ingly, and then the truth burst upon 
his observers. He was convulsed with 
uncontrollable laughter. He flung him- 
self into an easy-chair while his two hosts 
watched him, and then, for quite a good 
while, they had the chance of noting 
what real mirth means when it bubbles 
up, forceful and irresistible, in the soul 
of a man whose sense of humor is keen 
and strong. 

“ You’ve called yourselves a pair of 
rascals,” at length broke from Ganse- 


OUTING LIB BARK 


48 

voort. ‘*Ah, if I were uncivil enough, 
my two dear young fellows, I should 
call you a pair of geese ! ” 

“ Geese, sir ! ” said Maturin, biting his 
lips and paling a little, 

“ Geese ! echoed Lorrimore. 

“ Oh, well, donkeys, then, if you pre- 
fer it ! ” cried Ganse voort ; but he was 
too much of a gentleman not to regret 
those last words and promptly to apol- 
ogize for them. 

This he did while holding Maturin 
Meade’s hand in his own. “ My Rosalie 
ought to have been ashamed of herself,” 
he stated, “ for having sent you that pho- 
tograph. Candidly, I think the girl is 
dying of shame, as it is. Well, you’re a 
brilliant artist, and if it’s true that you 

love my daughter ” 

“ Love her, sir ! ” exclaimed Maturin. 
“ I adore her ! ” 

“ Do you, indeed ? ” said Gansevoort. 
with his facial muscles yet in a visible 
quiver. “We’ll see, we’ll see. ... I 
don’t say I forgive you yet, but perhaps 
I may later on. You’ve one immense 
point in your favor : you’re not a mu- 
sician ; you’re an artist, and a good one, 
as I happen to be aware.” 

“ Oh, thanks, thanks ! ” answered Mat- 
urin, almost with tears in his eyes. “ I 
feel sure now that you do mean to for- 
give me — that you will permit me, 
as . . . myself, sir, to begin my court- 
ship all over again ! ” 

Gansevoort pursed his lips and shook 
his head. “ My permission, Mr. Meade, 
will not count for much, I fear. If )’’ou 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 49 



“OH, LINA ! I’VE COME TO TELL YOU.’’ (Page 53) 

imag-ine that Rosalie is going to extend 
you her pardon easily, I should judge 
you were making a very grievous mis- 
take.” 


50 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


And Maturin certainly did so dis- 
cover. No sooner had Rosalie Ganse- 
voort learned the truth from her indul- 
gent and genial father than she flamed 
up with fiercest indignation. 

“ Papa,” she cried, “ do you actually 
mean that he’s — he’s an impostor ? ” 

“ That’s decidedly how it looks.” 

Rosalie burst into fiery tears. “ I will 
never marry him — never ! ” she avow- 
ed. That night she received a long let- 
ter from Maturin, full of passionate en- 
treaties for her pardon. She read it, 
cried over it, and inclosing it in a new 
envelope, redirected it to the writer. 
“ You are an artist and quite ignorant of 
music, my father tells me,” she scrawled 
on a card which went with the returned 
note. “Your art I certainly have ex- 
cellent reason to admire. Perhaps if 
you had more music in your soul you’d 
scorn to treat me as you have done.” 

She told her father, a little later, just 
what course she had taken. He watched 
her in silence for a while, and she per- 
ceived that his eyes were full of a brood- 
ing and subtle pity. 

“ So, you’ve broken with the young- 
man forever ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, yes! ” Rosalie tried to say very 
harshly. And then she added, with a 
rebuking fall in her voice : “ I should 

think, papa, that you would be very 
glad.” 

“ And why, pray ? ” 

“ Oh, my conduct in making that ad- 
vance to him ! It seems to me that 
you’ve not scolded half enough for it ! ” 


A COMEDY OE COVNTERELOI S. 5l 


“ My dear girl, when you first told 
me of it I shuddered with horror, and 
afterward, if you’ll remember, I gave 
you a terrific scolding.” 

“ No, no!” contradicted the girl, gnaw- 
ing her lips. “ You behaved, when all 
is said, papa, with the faultiest sort of 
leniency.” 

“ My dear Rose,” returned her father, 
leaning backward in his chair, “is it 
your meaning that I should have 
soundly boxed your ears ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes ! — anything ! ” she re- 
torted, with wild petulance. 

“ But you forget, my dear, that you’re 
a girl. And, then, I had been severe 
in past days on that potential musical 
suitor. I had no right, child, to hold him 
over your head as such a bugbear. 

Rosalie stamped her foot. “Upon 
my word, papa, I believe you’d dislike 
him for my suitor just as much as you 
ever did if he hadn’t turned out to be an 
artist of whose work you’re fond.” 

“ There’s a great deal in that, dear,” 
said Gansevoort, with his provoking 
composure. 

“ But you mustn't like him ! ” she per- 
sisted. “ You must despise him, as I do. 

I shall insist.” 

Her father laughed. “ You’ve always 
been wanting the moon ever since you 
were in short frocks, and I’ve always 
been trying to get it for you. The only 
thing I’ve ever denied you, if I’m not 
mistaken, has been a musician for a hus- 
band.” 

“ Oh, I don’t want one ! ” flared the 


52 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


girl. “You- needn’t have the faintest 
misgivings there / ” 

“ No ; perhaps you’ll prefer an artist.” 

“ Oh, papa ! papa ! you’re beyond all 
patience ! ” 

“ My dear Rose, it maj/ be that you 
have not patience enough.” 

Rosalie tossed her head in great wrath. 
“ Mercy ! how you appear to have fallen 
in love with this precious charlatan ! ” 

“ Really, I think him a very nice fel- 
low. He is doing finely with his paint- 
ing, and has the advantage of being a 
gentleman ” 

“ A gentleman ! Oh, papa ! I shan’t 
speak another word on the subject ! ” 
And Rosalie swept out of the room in a 
grand rage. 

The next day she went to see her cousin 
Lina, down in Second Avenue. Mr. Van 
Twiller, as it chanced, was upstairs with 
a severe though not dangerous lumbago, 
and Miss Cornelia was not at home. As 
the two girls met, a kind of telegraphic 
fiash seemed to take place between them. 

“Oh, Lina ! ” said Rosalie, “ I’ve come 
to tell you ” 

“That my Maturin Meade is your 
Lorrimore Lynn ! Oh, Rosalie, isn't it 
the very strangest thing that has ever 
happened in the whole world?” 

“ Strangest ? ” said Rosalie, with scorn. 
“ Call it the most villainous ! ” 

Lina’s blue-sparkling eyes turned sad. 
“ That’s a very hard way of putting it!” 

“Not at all! You may have what 
opinions you please about your bogus 
artist, but my bogus composer has 


. A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 53 

grown simply detestable to me ! ” 

Lina gave a mournful little cry. “ Oh, 
don’t say that ! Maturin — I mean Lor- 
rimore Lynn, you know — has just sent 
me such a long and lovely letter ! He 
managed to get it into my maid’s hand 
and she conveyed it to me without the 
knowledge of either Uncle Arcularius 
or Aunt Cornelia. It was so pathetic ! ” 

“ Pathetic ! ” sneered Rosalie. 

“He told the entire story about him- 
self and his friend.” 

“ Really, my dear ? And you have for- 
given such gross chicanery ? ” 

“ Chicanery ? Oh, Rosalie, they — they 
could neither of them help it ! They — 
they were led on by — by something they 

couldn’t resist. I ktiow that Matu 1 

mean Lorrimore (it does seem very 
strange to call him by this new name !) 
was tempted only through his great love 
for me. I cried over his letter, and 
pardoned him almost before I’d ceased 
to feel amazed at it. You should do the 
same thing, Rosalie ! ” And here Lina 
drew forth a bulky .envelope from a 
pocket in her gown. “ Let me tell you 
what he says about the way in which 
your photograph affected his friend.” 
After rapidly opening her letter, Lina 
shot a sudden look of reproach at her 
cousin across its unfolded pages. “ But 
I tnust. tell you one other thing first” 
she now announced in a changed and 
queerly solemn voice: “Your sending 

your picture, like that, was ” 

“ A brazen, outrageous piece of busi- 
ness ! ” broke in Rosalie, with unrelent- 


54 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


ing self-scorn. “Oh, I grant it, Lina — 
I ought to be flayed alive for doing what 
I did ! But that does not excuse him^ 
you know. And I’m very sorry to find 
you so thoroughly romantic a little 
goose. Of course you should never 
speak to — to the real Lorrimore Lynn 
again. I never intend to speak again to 
t& real Maturin Meade ! ” 

But Rosalie’s intention, as it soon 
turned out, faded before that energy of 
circumstance of which her good-natured 
father soon chose to make himself the 
agent. Gansevoort had taken a great 
fancy to the repentant young artist ; 
though, after all, he did not prove him- 
self at all foolishly hasty in bringing 
about a meeting and a reconciliation 
between his daughter and Maturin 
Meade. He possessed a kind of clair- 
voyant knowledge of Rosalie’s heart, 
born of his excessive love for her and 
the easy, brother-and-sister terms of 
intimacy on which they two had long 
lived. He had no doubt that the girl 
hid a deep and womanly love behind 
her indignation and chagrin. Then 
came his earnest desire, actively carried 
out, to discover if in any way this match 
would prove an unsuitable one for his 
child. Finding that not only was there 
no real stain upon the character of Mat- 
urin, but that his genius for painting 
was coupled with an excellent social 
status, not to speak of the handsome 
income derived from his numerous por- 
traits and pictures, Gansevoort assumed 
the role of a genial fate, and in less than 


A COMEDY OF COUNTERPLOTS. 55 


a fortnight began to beam with all his 
habitual complacence upon a troth- 
plight about as happy as he had ever 
witnessed between two kindred souls. 

Rosalie had forgiven, and gained 
perhaps the sweetest guerdon such 
clemency can ever bestow. But with 
poor Lina it was all quite different. 
She, who had been so willing to forgive, 
now dwelt in the chill gloom of her 
aunt’s and uncle’s unpitying frowns. 
Following Gansevoort’s advice, Lina 
and Lorrimore had striven to melt these 
two stony old custodians into conces- 
sion ; but their attempt was met with 
only derision and disgust. “ I will go 
and see them,” said Gansevoort, in his 
gentle voice ; and he went. 

He found them in a most embittered 
state. Lina came into the room and 
kissed him and pressed his hand, at the 
very moment her uncle Arcularius was 
saying — 

“ It really seems too bad that in a case 
like this people in our position can’t 
protect themselves by the police.” 

“You mean,” replied ' Gansevoort, 
“that you consider it illegal for Lina 
and Lorrimore Lynn to love one an- 
other ? ” 

Miss Cornelia bridled at this even 
more than did her brother. “You 
should be very well aware, Simeon,” she 
said, “ that by such a sentence, delivered 
in the hearing of our niece, you inflict 
upon both of us a severe annoyance. 
But, then, you have too evidently come 
here to make trouble.” 


56 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


will make trouble, if you insist 
upon it,” said Gansevoort, rising. “ You 
and Arcularius have neither of you the 
least control over Lina, who is now of 
age and her own mistress. Kindly 
recollect, too, that I am as close a rela- 
tion of hers as you are ; consequently, I 
feel myself authorized to advise her, and 
I do so after mature reflection. My ad- 
vice is this : that she shall marry the 
man of her choice, in spite of your 
august vetoes.” 

“ In spite of them ! ” wailed Miss Cor- 
nelia. 

Marry the mountebank!” rang 
from her brother. 

“ Oh, Uncle Simeon ! ” cried Lina, 
springing toward him. “ I’ll you ! 
I’ll even leave the house with you this 
very day ! I’m sick to the soul of 
trying to move those two cold hearts ! 
If, as you say, and as I well know. I’m 
now my own mistress, then from this 
hour I’ll defy a guardianship I was once 
grateful for, but which has grown to me 
a wretched yoke and burden 1 ” 

She flashed upon the two Van Twil- 
lers a look of defiance that made them 
exchange a glance of savage resolve. 
But they felt, nevertheless, that their 
tyranny had ended. Yielding with the 
worst grace in the world, they still were 
forced to yield ; and, later, though they 
sanctioned the betrothal with ill-con- 
cealed pangs of aversion, they sanc- 
tioned it, notwithstanding. 

And so these two cousins each won 
the husband of her preference, even if 


A COMEDY OF COUKTERPLOTS. 57 

by a course of true love that ran with 
the oddest and most twisted of cur- 
rents. And, however blamable and un- 
precedented the method of courtship 
adopted by Maturin and Lorrimore 
may seem to us, one fact can safely be 
recorded of both — a fact redounding to 
their credit and also breathing of their 
deserved exculpation — they have each, 
for several years past, made the best 
and fondest of husbands. It may be as 
true of all of us, as of them, that we 
weave a very tangled web indeed “ when 
first we practice to deceive ; ” but now 
and then the hand of destiny itself (as 
in the instance just chronicled) doth 
seem kindly to fall, with an unraveling 
and order-bringing kindliness, upon the 
turmoil wrought by our most foolish 
acts. 



PASTELLE.^ 

BY CLARA SPRAGUE ROSS. 

Chapter I. 

hottest day of the 
season was over. 
The sun, a huge 
crimson ball, had 
dropped unwilling- 
ly below the hori- 
zon. Twilight came 
with a faint, trem- 
bling breath ; a few 
soft, fleecy clouds 
passed out with the 
vanishing murki- 
ness and left the 
night brilliant and 
beautiful. A fair, young moon, shyly 
creeping in and out of the frail cloudlets, 
hung in the burning atmosphere, but 
night brought neither respite nor re- 
lief. The crickets in the grass kept up 
their sad monotone ; the insect life that 
had reveled in the glare of the midday 
sun still rent the air with hissing, sting- 
ing cries ; the weary birds, hiding be- 
neath the hot and dusty leaves, twittered 
fretfully or made petulant bird- remon- 
strance to each other. 

At the large hotel on the hill, at the 
right of “ Buxton’s,” the panting or- 
chestra were playing the last bars of an 
enticing waltz. From my window at 
“ Buxton’s ” I watched the hitherto gay, 
young devotees of the dance come slow- 
ly up from their sail on the still, dark 



PASTELLE, 


59 


waters of the lake that gave to this 
lovely Adirondack retreat its name. One 
by one the lights were extinguished in 
the immense hotel, and the moon and 
the crickets were alone. 

Too much exhausted with the heat to 
sleep, impatient of the four bare, white 
walls that imprisoned me, I took a soft 
lace scarf from my dresser, carefully de- 
scended the creaking stairs, silently 
drew the clumsy bolt that protected 
“ Buxton’s ” from the world, and stepped 
out on the broad, rough piazza that ran 
around three sides of the old farmhouse. 
A large, old-fashioned rocker, with broad 
arms, stood in one corner of the piazza, 
and, sure of the solitude, I threw myself 
into its shelter. With a start, and a 
little cry of astonishment, I fell back 
against the piazza railing. Just before 
me sat Miss Harriet Buxton ; one hand 
supported her bowed head, the other 
slowly waved back and- forth a tattered 
palmleaf fan. She drew herself up 
at the sound of my startled cry, and, 
turning her dark, homely face toward 
me, said : “ I’m sorry I scairt ye, Mrs. 
Manning ; will ye have this chair ? ” 

“ Forgive me for intruding upon your 
quiet. Miss Harriet ; you must be very 
tired to-night,” I answered, seating my- 
self near her on a cane sewing-chair. 

“Yes, I am tired, dead tired o’ think- 
in’. I don’t do nothin’ that tires me 
like thinkin’, and I’ve done sights of it,” 
was the sorrowful reply. 

I glanced at the hard, knotted, scarred 
hands that were now folded in Miss 


60 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


Harriet’s lap, thinking of the never- 
ending toil to which they bore unques- 
tioned witness. I knew so well how 
many, many summers this tall, frail 
woman had carried the old inn, fa- 
miliarly called “ Buxton’s,” through the 
drudgery of its short season. Always 
patient, always filled with anxiety lest 
her guests should suffer the smallest 
inconvenience ; making good Miss Su- 
san’s unfortunate derelictions and Sarah 
Buxton’s miserable blunders. 

I was conscious of the struggle, of 
the pain, the weariness, but I had only 
thought of these as physical; I had left 
out of the problem she was working the 
wearing, mental strain, the agonizing 
mind of this poor mountain drudge. 

I was full of pity ; I longed to offer 
sympath)^, to give expression to the 
rushing thoughts of my own mind, or 
to ask her to share with me the anxiety 
that weighed so heavily on her’s ; but I 
sat mute at her side. I dared not try 
to penetrate the unconscious dignity in 
which the woman wrapped herself 
after that one sad cry. The reserve, 
the loneliness of a lifetime were not to 
be rudely thrust aside, that a stranger 
from another, brighter, happier world 
than hers, might gaze curiously at a 
struggling, quivering heart. 

A gentle breeze from the lake, hidden 
in the pines and balsams just below us, 
lightly swayed the leaves of the creeper 
that twisted itself about the weather- 
stained piazza; a slender, purplish cloud 
trailed slowly across the moon. Leaning 


PAS TELLE. 


61 


over until I could look up into her face, 
I laid a hajid upon the one with which 
she clasped the arm of her chair, and 
said softly: “You are a marvel of 
strength and endurance. Miss Harriet ; 
but these have their limit with the best 
of us; you need rest, and more than 
rest, change.” The shadow of a smile 
hovered about her fine, firm mouth, 
but she did not withdraw her hand as 
she answered, a little bitterly: “ You’re 
as good as the doctors, Mrs. Manning, 
for prescribin’ remedies that only the 
dear Lord knows how we shall get. 
I have never been further from home 
than over to John Brown’s grave in 
forty years; the only change I’m likely 
to have will be upward, not outward.” 
Then, as if fearing she had spoken 
harshly, she added, “but it’s kind of 
you to care, and it ain’t the work, nor 
the mountains, nor ‘ Buxton’s’ that’s so 
hard to live with; it’s the worry as I 
told you; and yet I’ve found a way out 
of lots of worries. There’s Stannardses, 
up on the hill ; I fretted from the time 
they turned the first sod till the Leigh- 
tons and the Crafts and PrOvSident Pow- 
ers, and all of the rest of our reg’lars 
drove up here by the first stage the 
next year, ’bout the way we girls was 
goin’ to be pushed further and further 
along till there wouldn’t be nothin’ for 
us to do but to drop into that black, 
treacherous lake yonder. 

“The mortgage on the farm’s been 
paid since then, and a bit laid by for 
Sarah and Susan ; not much, though. 


62 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


Nobody but Sarah could make both 
ends of it meet, but she’ll do it, and 
take care of Susan, too ; them twin 
girls set sights by each other, and the 
same Providence that’s cared for three 
old maids can care for two ; but — but — ” 
she hesitated, struggling to repress the 
quivering of her lips and to crush back 
the strong emotion that threatened to 
overwhelm her — “but what’ll become 
o’ Pastelle, my pretty little Pastelle ? 
Can ye tell me that ? ” she pleaded. 

How far apart we were, after all 1 
Only this pained cry, with the pathos in 
the word Pastelle, could have con- 
vinced me that the wild, shy, careless 
child was the Koh-i-noor with which 
Miss Harriet could not part. “Her sis- 
ters — Sarah surely will care for her,” 
I suggested. 

“No, no,” she answered, hastily, 
“you don’t know Sarah. Where she 
loves she’ll do anything; where she 
hates she can’t see no good. She never 
could bear Pastelle, never since she 
laid soft and white and helpless in the 
old cradle that all the Buxtons have 
been rocked in for four generations. 

“I think it broke her heart when 
father married the second time ; Sarah’d 
been his favorite always, and I thought 
she’d die when I told her the truth. 
You see Mrs. Manning, it all came 
about like this: father had lived alone 
ever since mother died. We girls 
weren’t like him. Father was a gen- 
tleman, and he hadn’t always lived up 
here in the mountains. ’Twasn’t half 


Pastklle. 


6B 


So strange he married Pastelle’s mother 
as that he had married ours. He loved 
his books and his dogs and the sunsets 
and the scenery. He never talked 
much, and was gloomy and lonesome- 
like when the season was over and the 
guests was gone. 

“ One summer there came up a family 
from New York — father, mother and 
five children — ugly, whining, fretful 
children they was, too — and a girl about 
sixteen, Pastelle. She was a poor cousin ; 
her aunt gave her a home and expecteu 
her to look after the children. The girl 
was a delicate, quiet thing, and those 
youngsters made her life miserable. She 
told them stories, she rowed them on the 
lake, or she took long tramps into the 
woods with them, never cross or com- 
plainin’, but growin’ every day more 
pale and thin and tired like. After a 
few weeks she began to cough, just a 
little low cough, as if she didn’t know 
she was coughin ’. I couldn’t but feel 
sorry for her. 

“ By and by her aunt said she shouldn’t 
stay in this lonesome place any longer. 
There was nothin’ here then but ‘ Bux- 
ton’s,’ and they packed their trunks to 
go the next day. Father says to me 
that mornin’, ‘ Harriet, we’ll keep that 
poor child another month, if her aunt 
is willin’ ; you may ask her.’ Well, the 
aunt didn’t seem to care whether she 
went or stayed, and the girl looked so 
grateful-like when I put my arm around 
her and gave her father’s invitation that 
I couldn’t help bein’ glad, tho’ I knew 


64 : 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


what was cornin’. 

“When the month was over father 
wrote her friends that he and Pastelle 
were going to be married. They never 
answered the letter. 

“We might have been very happy 
that winter but for Sarah. Father 
seemed to think more of Susan and me 
because Pastelle loved us, and her pret- 
ty, girlish ways made us her willin’ 
slaves. She found an old violin some- 
where in the house, and evenin’s she’d 
play to us, a sad, tearful sort of music, 
that would have broken a heart of flint, 
I used to think. She grew rosy, and the 
hollows filled up in her cheeks, and she 
didn’t cough so much — but she couldn’t 
win Sarah, and she knew it ; and tho’ 
father wouldn’t have borne any real 
unkindness to his wife, he never seemed 
quite to forget his old fondness for 
Sarah, and he didn’t interfere. Her 
jealousy rather pleased him I fancy. 

“Well, the nexc summer season was 
an awful hard one ; the house was full, 
and father was more careless than ever. 
He would take Pastelle and go off every 
mornin’ across the further lake, and 
into the woods, leavin’ everythin’ for 
us girls to do. 

“ I was half sick that year, too, and 
we couldn’t have carried ‘ Buxton’s ’ 
through but for Sarah ; the angrier she 
got with father, the harder she worked, 
and we did splendidly. 

“ I was glad, tho’, when it was all over, 
and we were quiet again. Susan and I 
made lots of plans for the long, dreary 


PASTKLLE, 


6b 



winter days that was cornin’, and Pas- 
telle would langh and tell us how good 
she thought we was, and how much she 
loved us. 

“ Late in October we were havin’ al- 
most summer weather. That fall a 
party of young men drove over here 
for a week’s huntin’; they made father 
promise to go with them as guide. He 
didn’t want to go, and at first he re- 
fused, but Pastelle joined with the 
young m*en, and they offered so much 


“LOOKING UP THE WAY THEY WAS TO 
COME.” ^.Page 6G) 


66 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


for his services that he consented, 
though I could see he did it reluc- 
tantly, and only because Pastelle wanted 
him to. 

“ She was awful restless as soon as 
he was gone. I couldn’t seem to do any- 
thin’ to make her happy; she would 
start at every little noise, and her face 
had a scared, white look all the time. 
Sarah’d smile kind o’ scornful and say 
she guessed she’d live through it. 

“ We didn’t expect them back until 
Saturday night, for the young men was 
to spend Sunday here ; but early Friday 
mornin’ Pastelle drew a chair towards 
the window, lookin’ up the way they 
was to come, and folded her arms on 
the sill, with her head restin’ on them, 
and her great gray eyes fixed on the 
mountains. All at once I saw her start, 
and, lookin’ over her head, I could see 
oife of the young men runnin’ down the 
little foot-path and motionin’ to me 
somethin’ I couldn’t understand. I 
hurried to the door, but Pastelle got 
there first, and she heard him say, 
‘Take her away. Miss Harriet! take 
her away ! ’ Swift as a deer she rushed 
past him, and over the ground down to 
the lake. She was the first to know and 
see it all. 

“ One of the party had slipped on the 
wet grass that mornin’ and fallen ; his 
gun had discharged, and father, who 
was walkin’ just before him, dropped 
lifeless at his side without a cry. 

“ They told me afterward they 
thought their feet was rooted to the 


PASTELLE. 


67 


earth when they saw Pastelle flyin’ 
down to meet them. She didn’t make a 
sound or ask a question ; she only raised 
one of father’s hands from his breast, 
and, claspin’ it in her own little hand, 
walked slowly and calmly beside the 
men who bore the quiet form she loved 
so dearly. 

I can’t tell you of the next few 
days, Mrs. Manning — you know it ain’t 
easy to talk about the things that wring 
the life-blood out of your heart — they 
were terrible days, though, with Sarah 
cryin’ and sobbin’ all day and all night 
beside the coffin, and Pastelle cold, and 
white, and dumb, stealin’ in and out of 
the room, just to look at father, or to 
put his hair back and touch his fore- 
head with her colorless lips. 

“ They came to an end at last, as I’ve 
found everythin’, good or bad, does 
come, and we four were left alone in 
the old house; but the winter Susan 
and I had looked forward to was the 
dreariest, darkest one of our lives. 

“ I think if Pastelle had been wild and 
fierce in her madness it would have 
been easier, but she just sat there by 
that window day after day, lookin’ and 
watchin,’ and never speakin’ one word. 

“We got the doctor to come over 
from Evanstown to see her. He said 
there was nothin’ to do but wait ; she’d 
come out all right by-and-by. We must 
let her have her own way and watch 
her carefully. 

“ One day in March, Pastelle, just a 
little whiter and quieter, lay in there 


68 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


where father had rested, and I sat, help- 
less and alone, watchin’ the bit of a 
baby girl she had put into my arms. 

“ The soft, lovin’ look had come back 
into her eyes at the last, and she spoke 
just once when she gave me the baby : 

‘ vShe is yours, Harriet ; her name is 
Pastelle, to please her father, you 
know.’ Then she just folded her hands 
and sighed, and Susan pressed the lids 
down over the tired eyes that would 
never need to watch any more. 

“ It is fifteen years since then, Mrs. 
Manning ; long, hard years they was at 
first. Pastelle was delicate and feeble- 
like, and I didn’t know the least bit how 
to do for her, but I loved her as I’d 
never loved Sarah, or Susan, or father, 
and I prayed every day to God to let 
me have her to love and live for. She 
was like her mother from the first, so 
quiet and patient and mournful-like ; 
but she had father’s eyes, large and dark, 
like deep, purple pansies you see some- 
times, only, as she grew older, the star- 
tled, hunted look came into them more 
and more. Susan said they made her 
think of a wounded fawn ; but I knew it 
was her mother’s trouble.” 

The white light of the moon was full 
on Miss Harriet’s face ; she lifted the 
palm-leaf fan as if to shield herself. I 
saw her lips close tightly, and the lines 
about her mouth deepened into wrin- 
kles. 

“ I’ve often wondered,” she contin- 
ued, after a moment, “ why the things 
that cost the most, that you sacrifice 


PASTELLE, 


69 


everythin’ else for, are never quite 
what you hoped they’d be ; there’s al- 
ways somethin’ that takes the joy out 
o’ them soon or late. Did you ever 
think of it, Mrs. Manning ? ” 

“ Ah ! dear Miss Harriet, it is a sad 
experience, and one not confined to the 
mountains,” I whispered. She did not 
need to tell me of the bitterest drop in 
her cup. I divined, however, that to- 
night it would ease her heart to empty 
it of the whole burden, and I glanced at 
her questioningly. 

'■‘I wouldn’t believe it at first,” she 
went on, turning her face from me just 
a little, “that I should never hear her 
childish voice. I knew she could hear 
the birds sing, and she’d sit, solemn as 
an owl, lookin’ up at the clock, listenin’ 
to its tickin’. Why shouldn’t she talk ? 
The summer she was three years old 
there was a famous doctor here with a 
party of friends. One of the ladies, who 
took a fancy to Pastelle, asked him what 
could be done for her, but he didn’t say 
much. He thought as she grew older 
and stronger she’d try to talk. It was 
because she was so frail and had been 
sick a good deal that she was backward, 
and he asked if she couldn’t be taken on 
a sea- voyage ; she needed warmth and 
sunshine all the year round. He said 
this mountain air was enough to con- 
geal stouter frames than Pastelle’s. He 
didn’t like it up here anyway, and hur- 
ried off in a few days. Well, I tried to 
hope a while longer. As she grew older 
she seemed stronger. She could climb 


70 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


like a cat; she learned to row and to 
swim, and was never so happy as when 
she was wanderin’ about in the woods 
across the lake. It used to worry me 
most to death if she was out of my sight, 
till she had the dogs. You know Albert 
Leighton sent her his two hounds. 
Carver Doone and Kaiser Fritz, when 
he went abroad, and Annie Leigh- 
ton gave her a little silver whistle to 
wear with a silver chain around her 
neck, and, little by little. I’ve got used 
to her bein’ away all day, especially in 
the summer-time, when I’m so busy. 
I’ve made up my mind to the worst now, 
and the cross doesn’t bind half so hard 
when you’ve settled it down on your 
shoulders for life, an’ you try to suit 
yourself to it, instead of lookin’ every 
mornin’ to see if it ain’t gone, and you 
can straighten up. I can’t help thinkin’ 
though, about the future ; nobody else 
can feel towards her as I do, an’ we’re 
poor, an’ I’m gettin’ old. We grow old 
faster up here in the mountains, where 
there’s nuthin’ fur us to think of most 
of the year but ourselves and our lone- 
liness and our pains. It’s been awful 
selfish for me to try to thrust my care 
on you, though, and almost a stranger, 
too. Don't you think you can forget it 
all ? We’ll never speak of it again, but 
I shall always remember how kind and 
patient you was to listen.” 

“ Miss Harriet,” I interrupted, I am 
very sure I was sent down here to-night 
to listen. I do not wish to forget one 
v/ord of your sad story. Do you know 


PASTELLE, 


71 


the boy whose coining I anticipate to- 
morrow is not my son, but the child of 
one who was once very dear to me ? We 
have the same name, and he has been 
mine from his boyhood. I love him as 
you love Pastelle. If I can comfort or 
help you, let me do it for the sake of 
this tender affection that makes heart 
answer to heart.” 

For a moment we sat with hand 
clasping hand in the darkness ; the sky 
was gray with gathering clouds ; little 
gusts of wind, laden with fine, warm 
rain, swept over our faces. Carver and 
Kaiser, who were crouching beside the 
house-door, whined piteously as Miss 
Harriet held it open and I went in. 



I 


11 . 

T he next day the heavy, jolting- 
stage, with its weary, lagging- 
horses, which should have reached 
“ Buxton’s ” at eleven in the morn- 
ing, was two hours behind time, and 
the Leightons, of whose party I was a 
member, were sitting on the hot piazza, 
after a hurried dinner, in a fever of ex- 
pectation and needless anxiety. Annie 
Leighton, sweet and fair as the cream^y 
roses she wore in drooping profusion at 
her slender waist, raised her opera-elas? 
for the fiftieth time to search the dusty 
road stretching out over the meadows 
and down to the little wood, where it 
passed out of sight. Her delicate face 
flushed softly as I joined the group. 
She looked at me mockingly, saying, 
“ How can you be so calm, Mrs. Man- 
ning, when you haven’t seen Harry for 
three years ^ And there’s mamma, too, 
fanning herself as placidly as if Albert 
Leighton were not almost in sight! ” 

We smiled indulgently at the im- 
patient girl, while her mother answered 
lovingly, “ It is a lesson Mrs. Manning 
and I have learned, dear. There is so 
much waiting to be done, it is easier to 
do it without fretfulness.’* 

Ten minutes later the glass fell with 
a crash, and Annie went flying down 
the steps with outstretched arms to be 
clasped to the heart of her brother, 
who sprang lightly from the coach, lift- 


PASTELLE. 


73 


ing his eyes as he did so to the eager, 
tearful face that watched him from the 
piazza. With a quickly beating heart 
I waited for the tall, manly figure of 
my own dear one. His greeting lacked 
nothing of warmth or spontaneousness, 
and I knew his old-time boyish affection 



WE DREW OUR CHAIRS INTO THE MOONLIGHT. 


74 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


for me had not suffered loss in these 
years of separation. The rich color 
mounted to his fine, dark face just as it 
had done when as a boy he was very 
much pleased, and he held my hands in 
both his own, exclaiming, “Just the 
same blessed Cousin Dorothy as ever, 
aren’t you, dear ? ” 

Without waiting for reply, he led me 
over to Mrs. Leighton, who, in her 
quiet, cordial manner, was welcoming 
the young Englishman whom Albert 
had brought with him quite unexpect- 
edly. The other guests of the house 
had found the heat and light of the 
August afternoon so oppressive that 
the daily diversion of watching for the 
stage had not tempted them to linger, 
and we were alone in our happiness. 

Later, when the dazzling sunset had 
faded into a soft, gray twilight, we 
went boating and were drifting slowly 
about on the motionless waters of the 
large lake. Albert, with his arm 
around his mother, was softly whisper- 
ing of hopes and anticipations that she 
alone could truly share. Young Horace 
Hendon sat beside me in the small 
cushioned seat in the stern of the boat 
in an ecstasy of delight over the mount- 
ains and the water, while Harry, with 
his hands resting slightly on the oars, 
watched the shy, love-lighted face of 
Annie Leighton, who sat opposite him. 
Through her fingers, hanging idly over 
the edge of the boat, the water rippled 
softly. Over the tops of the trees a 
crescent moon lighted the sullen lake 


75 


. FASTELLE, 

with a trail ot glittering splendor. It 
was, indeed, a pretty picture and a hap- 
py party. “Will you sing for us, 
Harry ? ” broke in Annie, suddenly. 
“ Sornething sad and sweet, please ; let 
us drift to the land of the ‘ lotus-eaters ’ 
to-night, guided by the moonlight and 
lulled by dreamy music.” 

“ How recently has my little sister de- 
veloped this fondness for lotus-eating, 
and moonlight, and music ? ” asked Al- 
bert with a laugh that brought wave 
after wave of color to the girl’s face. 

Harry’s fine, well modulated voice 
rang sweetly out on the quiet night, 
now tenderly, almost sadly, then with 
the gay and joyous abandon of a French 
serenade, closing with an impassioned 
“ Adieu ! Adieu ! ” 

Harry brought the boat to its moor- 
ings at the little wooden pier that ran 
from the boat-house to the water. One 
by one we followed each other in the 
narrow dewy path through the grass, 
in silence to the house. 

A promenade concert and dancing at 
the “ Startnard House,” on the hill, had 
attracted the remaining guests at “ Bux- 
ton’s,” and we found the broad piazza 
lonely and deserted, save for the small, 
white figure of a girl who was leaning 
languidly against one of the rough, sup- 
porting pillars in a shadowy corner. 

The dark-green leaves of the wood- 
bine threw her exquisitely chiseled 
oval face into soft relief. The ivory tint 
of her complexion ; the clear scarlet of 
her sensitive mouth, the dark, almost 


76 


OUTTNG LIBRARY, 


purple hue of her eyes, half-veiled by 
long, fine lashes, and the masses of 
light, golden hair, that curled in large, 
soft rings about her forehead and slen- 
der throat, formed an harmonious study 
in color that must have appealed to a 
less keen and cultured artistic taste 
than Harry’s. Two magnificent hounds 
stood beside her ; on the head of each 
the girl placed a small, restraining hand 
as we approached, but her calm, immo- 
bile face expressed neither interest nor 
curiosity. 

“Ah, Pastelle ! little will-o’-the-wisp, 
who would have dreamed of finding 
a young deer, caring for nothing but 
the mountains and the lakes, living in a 
sad, mute world of her own, in which 
affection, or tenderness, or speech had 
no part. We drew our chairs into the 
moonlight, Harry choosing one close 
beside me an I at some distance from 
Annie, who had very suddenly become 
aware of Horace Hendon’s claim upon 
her attention and courtesy. We sat for 
some time in that restful silence which 
follows intense and long-anticipated 
pleasure. The gay music from the 
large house on the hill came floating 
down to us at intervals on the warm, 
sweet air. In moments of stillness we 
heard the dreary monotone of the crick- 
ets, and the cry of a night bird, shrill 
and clamorous, or Annie’s merry 
laugh and young Hendon’s eager re- 
plies to her careless interrogations as 
they walked up and down the piazza. 

Harry, with a quiet, far-away look on 


PASTELLK 


77 


his handsome face, hummed softly an 
old Bedouin love song. Mrs. Leighton 
laid her gentle hand upon his arm as 
she caught the melody, saying : “ Ah, 
Harry, that carries me back to your 
boyhood days. Sing the dear, sad song 
for me again,” and she pushed the heavy 
hair from my boy’s forehead and gazed 
fondly into his upturned face, as if to 
reassure herself of “ a love that shall not 
die.” 

The very night seemed to hush itself 
as the tender, pleading voice uttered 
the beseeching words of the song : 

‘ ‘ the midnight hears my cry, 

I love thee, I love but thee, 

With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold 
And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the judgment-book 
unfold.” 

Through an open window I watched 
a small white figure creep slowly and 
stealthily over the uncarpeted floor of 
the old sitting-room. Unnoticed, save 
by myself, she came through the win- 
dow and up to my side, her great violet 
eyes fixed on Harry’s face. I could 
feel her small hands tremble as they 
touched, unconsciously, my arm. Over 
and over, the wild Arabian melody, 
thrilling and plaintive, reiterated its 
plea. As the last words sighed them- 
selves away, Harry turned and once 
more caught a glimpse of Pastelle’s ex- 
quisite face. I saw the light, born of de- 
light, illumine every feature of his coun- 
tenance. I put out my hand to bring the 


78 


OUTING LIBRAnr, 


g-irl a little nearer, but it fell unheeded. 
She had vanished as she had come. 

There is little to tell of the glorious, 
golden summer days that followed. 
They were filled with quiet, happy rec- 
reation. Hunting and fishing in the 
cool morning hours for the young men, 
while Mrs. Leighton, Annie or I worked 
or read in a retired corner of the ample 
piazza that was tacitly recognized as our 
own. Our evenings were passed, for 
the most part, on the placid, but to me 
always dark and solemn waters of the 
lake, upon which Whiteface and Mount 
Marcy frowned. Not much to tell of 
these days, and yet much to remember. 

Pastelle was with us almost constant- 
ly,but so were the birds and the sunshine, 
and the butterflies, and we gave her 
scarcely more heed. A week had slip- 
p 3d away. I was writing one afternoon 
in my own room when Harry entered. 

“ Do not let me disturb you. Cousin 
Dorothy,” he said, “ I came for a little 
visit by ourselves, but any other time 
will do as well.” 

“ My time is always at your disposal, 
Harry, dear,” I replied, ‘‘and I have 
really seen almost nothing of you.” 

“ You are sure to see a great deal of 
me if you consent to assist me in the 
work I have in mind,” Harry laughingl)^ 
returned. “ To be honest. Cousin 
Dorothy, I believe I have found my 
ideal face up here in the mountains, 
after having searched the world over and 
been disappointed again and again. I 
shall have no rest or peace, at any rate, 


PASTELLE. 


79 


until I get to work and watch the face on 
my canvas reproduce the one that 
haunts me continually.” 

“ How many, many times before have 
you entertained this thought, my boy ? ” 

I queried with a smile. 

“ Do not be unkind,” he begged. “ It 
is just because I am not sure, that 
Pastelle’s face so fascinates me ; there 
is something in it I cannot grasp, it is 
forever eluding me.” 

“ Are you convinced that this subtle, 
elusive something is really there ? ” I 
suggested, wondering silently that such 
well trained eyes should see so dimly. 
Harry did not reply, but stood gazing 
out of the open window with a dissatis- 
fied, perplexed knitting of his brows. 

“ I would like very much to make a 
few studies of the girl’s face. Cousin 
Dorothy,” he exclaimed at last. “ She is 
at her best in the woods or upon the 
water. Will you go with us for a row 
after tea to-night ? ” 

“ With great pleasure, Harry,” I 
hastened to reply. “ I assure you I did 
not intend to be cold or critical; forgive 
me, if my words implied as much.” 

And so began the end. At morning 
and at evening, in the pure, untainted 
hours of early day, in the mellow, ten- 
der calm of softly-stealing night, we 
drifted in the sunshine or the shadow 
or the moonlight over the waveless 
water. Sometimes we rested, our tiny, 
shell-like bark moored safely under 
overhanging trees, while Harry silently 
sketched, glancing quickly now and 


80 


OVTII^G LIBRARY, 


then at the weird, delicate face that was 
always turned to him. 

One night Pastelle seemed unusually 
listless and weary. Her hands were 
crossed in her lap, the creamy lids 
drooped low over her purple eyes, and 
the first look of human sadness I had 
ever seen upon her face, touched it with 
a shadow. I whispered softly to Harry, 
“ Sing ! ” It was of little moment that 
the words of the song had no meaning 
for her ears. She listened only to the 
voice, to the dreamy, delicious music 
that thrilled her dormant, unconscious 
soul to an almost painful ecstasy. Into 
the great, quiet e5^es there crept a ten- 
der, mournful longing ; her scarlet lips 
were parted and through them came 
short, quick respirations. She lifted 
her slender hands and held them out to 
Harry with a mute, impassioned gesture, 
and the light upon her face was not of 
earth or time. I was glad when the 
little boat-house was reached, and we 
could restore Pastelle to Miss Harriet’s 
watchful care. 

“ Harry, remember the trust com- 
mitted to my care is a sacred one. I 
shall never help you to find a human 
heart that you may trifle with it,” were 
my parting words that night. 

* * * * * * 

Annie Leighton was not quite herself 
at this time — her gay, thoughtless, care- 
less self. When she was no longer the 
central wheel about which all the others 
revolved, it was very hard for her to 
reconcile herself to the unaccustomed 


HARRY DID NOT REPLY, BUT STOOD GAZING OUT OF THE OPEN WINDOW 






82 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


position. To Pastelle she was coolly 
indifferent ; she would have scorned the 
idea of rivalry with an “ innocent bar- 
barian,” as she often designated the 
girl, who, on her part, rarely deigned to 
notice the imperial beauty, whose self- 
love she had all unwittingly injured. 
Neither was Pastelle now the same girl 
we had once known. There was a sub- 
tle charm, a pathetic wistfulness, in her 
beautiful face, that spoke of some men- 
tal or spiritual experience, which the 
girl herself could not fully comprehend. 
The vague, unreal expression was gone 
from her eyes. They were purest crys- 
tal windows now, through which a liv- 
ing, loving soul found utterance. Her 
sensitive mouth smiled intelligent rec- 
ognition, and more than once I listened 
eagerly for the faltering word I believed 
was trembling on hef lips. Strangest 
of all, however, she seemed to care less 
for human society and increasingly more 
for the solitude and sympathy of Na- 
ture. At the first faint touch of dawn 
I heard the eall upon the silver whistle 
that summoned “ Carver and Kaiser ” to 
her. Often at dinner a handful of rare, 
pink water lilies or a bunch of feathery 
maidenhair fern laid at Harry’s plate 
bore silent witness to a long, lonely 
tramp and the girl’s innocent affeetion. 
It was unjust, I reasoned, to eensure the 
gentle eourtesy that bordered upon ten- 
derness, the lingering look of that pity 
that is so akin to love, whieh Harry be- 
stowed in return. Anything less than 
these mute responses to an affection as 


PASTELLK 



83 

pure and as spontaneous as that of a 
little child, would have wounded a frail 
soul-life that was hardly aware of its 
existence. And yet the end must come. 


The summer would soon be over. The 
nodding plumes of the golden-rod were 
evidence, and the crickets chirped it 
with a sorrowful persistence. I must 
take counsel with Miss Harriet, I said 
to myself. The aid and comfort my 
sympathetic heart has offered must not 
fail her when she may need both. 


Ill 


A TELEGRAM summoning Albert 
Leighton to New York without 
delay, decided Mrs. Leighton 
and Annie to take a short trip 
to the seashore. Harry and I were to 
remain at “ Buxton’s ” a little longer, 
joining the Leightons after a round- 
about journey to New York, in time to 
go over to England with them early in 
October. 

It chanced that on the day of their 
departure Harry and I were the only 
guests in the house. One entire family 
had gone the day before, and the re- 
maining guests had taken advantage of 
a gray and cloudy morning, the first in 
many weeks of fierce and burning sun- 
shine, to make several long-talked-of 
trips to neighboring lakes or ponds. 

I had walked down to the pier with 
Harry, who was going off with his can- 
vas and brushes for a few hours’ quiet 
work in a secluded but delightful spot 
on one of the small islands of the large 
lake, where he, Pastelle and I had 
passed many happy hours. As I re- 
turned by way of a narrow, winding 
path, leading up to the rear of the 
house, I saw Miss Harriet putting the 
long, low dining-room in order, hanging 
branches of red-berried asparagus over 
the windows, covering the large tables 
with pink mosquito netting, and finally 
closing the blinds at the windows not 
shaded by the broad piazza. She smiled 


PASTELLE. 


85 


in her quaint, prim way, as I came slowly 
up the path, and said kindly: “You’re 
lookin’ very warm and tired-like, Mrs. 
Manning-. Come in here, where it’s 
cool, and I’ll get you some ice-water.” 

She brought a low rocker, her own 
soft and broken palm-leaf fan, and a 
glass of water, into which she had 



“SOMETHINCx TO SAY CONCERNING PASTELLE." 

poured some of her delicious, crimson 
raspberry shrub. 

Miss Harriet was a woman of few 
words, and her little acts of gracious 
courtesy were quickly and silently per- 
formed. She was about to leave the 
room when I asked, hesitatingly, “ Can’t 
you spare me a few of your precious 
moments this morning. Miss Harriet? 
i have something to say to you concern- 
ing Pastelle.” 


S6 


OVTI^G library. 


She seated herself on the edge of a 
high-backed, wooden chair opposite me, 
threw one corner of her large, dark 
calico apron over her hands, and turned 
her careworn face towards me. 

As tenderly, as delicately as I knew 
how, I asked her to give me the child 
of her heart for a few short months ; at 
least, for the bleak, cold winter that 
would erelong bind this mountain 
home in chains of ice and bands of 
snowy drift. I promised to take her, 
as though she were my own, to the sun- 
niest, softest climes ; to give her loving 
watchful care, and more than all else, 
to seek the counsel of celebrated physi- 
cians and specialists in the hope that 
voice and speech might be Pastelle’s. 

“ Will you trust me. Miss Harriet ? I 
have learned to love your sweet, wild 
mountain-flower, and all that I can do 
will be for love’s dear sake.” 

The woman’s face before me was 
white and strained, the worn, scarred 
hands under the old calico apron were 
tightly clasped, her lips moved, but no 
words passed them. If love triumphed 
at last, I should never forget the meas- 
ure of her agony. 

“ I hadn’t thought of it in this way, 
that Pastelle might be taken from me^ 
she faltered brokenly. “ I’m not unmini 
ful tho’ of your kindness,” she continued. 
“ You can wait a little, can’t you, just a 
little while before you must know ? ” 

“ I shall not consent to anything con- 
cerning Pastelle that does not fulfill your 
tenderest, truest desire for her, dear Miss 


PASTE LLE. 


87 


Harriet. If I have asked too much, 
forgive me, and do not let the thought 
distress you for one moment.” 

She took my hand in hers with a 
quick, impulsive touch, and walked with 

her head erect to the door in silence. 

* * * * * 

Miss Susan served at our rather late 
dinner that day, and in reply to my in- 
quiry, “ Has not Mr. Manning re- 
turned } ” she said she had not seen him, 
but heard him accept an invitation from 
one of the young men at the Stannard 
House to drive over to Bloomfield, a 
tiny village some miles away, and that 
he offered the use of his boat for the 
rest of the day and evening to a brother 
of the same young man. 

The morning, that haa promised a 
little relief from the intense and enervat- 
ing heat of an unusually severe au- 
tumn, became almost oppressive as it 
wore on to afternoon. The air was 
heavy and filled with vapor. Enormous 
black clouds hung over the distant 
mountain peaks, and the stillness that 
brooded over all nature was almost 
painful in its premonition. 

I had seen nothing of Pastelle, since 
she waved a silent and careless good-bye 
to the Leightons in the early morning 
from the steps of the piazza, where she 
stood fair, pure and untroubled as the 
fragile Alpine flower. Edelweiss, which 
was Harry’s favorite name for her. I 
was in quest of her when I met Miss 
Harriet, much disturbed, who exclaim- 
ed, “ There’s a storm cornin’ ! Such a 


88 


OUTIl^G LIBRARY. 


storm as we haven’t had this summer, 
nor for many a year before. I can’t 
imagine what’s become of Pastelle. 
She’s awful nervous and frightened at 
the least bit of thunder or lightning ; 
has she been with you, Mrs. Manning ? ” 
The woman’s voice trembled with emo- 
tion ; a scarlet spot on either cheek con- 
vinced me that she was thoroughly 
alarmed. Passing my arm through 
hers, I suggested that we go down to 
the pier ; Pastelle, possibly, did not 
know of Mr. Manning’s return, and had 
gone to warn him of the approaching 
storm. Miss Harriet, almost uncon- 
sciously, slipped away from me and 
hurried over the hot, slippery, grass- 
grown path to the boat-house. Miss 
Susan and Miss Sarah were just behind 
me. When we reached the lake, the 
eldest sister turned to us, saying sharply 
“ It’s gone ! her boat’s gone ! and Car- 
ver and Kaiser are tied to the ring.” 

Sullen, black and motionless, the 
drear)^, treacherous water stretched 
before us ; tall, grim and green the 
trees on every shore stood ^aunt, like 
giant sentinels. Occasionaily a bird 
skimmed wearily over the surface of the 
lake, its fluttering wings just escaping 
the water ; over all the thick, hot air 
closing above and around us like an 
invisible, impenetrable cloud. 

Out on the sloping, narrow pier stood 
the lonely, anxious woman, whose pierc- 
ing eyes searched the sky and the water, 
while her white lips moved in silent 
prayer. Suddenly a cry, glad, yet fear- 


PASTELLK 


89 


ful, broke the awful stillness. With 
arms outstretched, she called Come, 
come quickly, darling, I'm a-waitin’ ! 
Nuthin’ shall harm ye ; Harriet’s here.” 

So far away, that to our less keen 
vision from the shelter of the boat- 
house, it was hardly more than a 
speck, was a boat. Moving, was it ? Only 
love could tell. 

“He holds the storm in the hollow — - 
in the ho''‘'"'w of His hand,” murmured 
Miss Harriet. “Come quick, dearie; 
Harriet’s a-prayin’, but the storm’s 
got to come pretty soon ; you must 
be quick^ Pastelle.” 

Yes, we could see it now, the frail 
bark canoe, the small, white figure of 
the girl who guided it over the crystal 
sea. Half — a little more than half the 
distance that seemed so little and was 
yet so great. 

In one corner of the boat-house, with 
her face to the wall, Miss Susan knelt 
with bowed head ; close beside me, her 
hands convulsively grasping my arm. 
Miss Sarah tottered, her face wet with 
the tears that rolled unchecked over its 
wrinkled surface. 

A breath, a whisper in the pines, a 
something that fanned our brows, a rip- 
ple on the water, a little heaving of the 
placid bosom, where the tiny boat was — 
and once more that sad, shrill cry, 
“ Come quicker, quicker, darling ; don’t 
you hear Harriet ? Didn’t ye see the 
ripple and feel the wind ? Oh ! if Har- 
riet could only walk to ye, my baby ! ” 
and then those piled-up, broken masses of 


00 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


clouds just for one moment, how or why, 
God only knew, parted, and through the 
rift the sun shone, straight and full on 
the beautiful face. Harry’s words, “ as 
beautiful as one of Fra Angelico’s an- 
gels,” flitted through my mind, but I 
whispered to Miss Sarah, “ as beautiful 
as one of the angels of God.” Then the 
darkness seemed more dense — more real 
for the momentary brightness. For an 
instant, stillness, then another shiver 
through the trees, a faint, dull roar. 
Carver and Kaiser snifled the rude 
board floor with burning, dilating nos- 
trils. Swiftly and silently out of the 
jaws of death the frail bark skimmed. 
A few more strokes and it would be 
safe. 

Just then came one white, cruel, 
blinding flash, one peal that rang from 
mountain top to mountain top, and 
out on the lashing, whirling, plung- 
ing water Pastelle’s little boat tossed its 
tiny keel turned upward to the sky. 



A MEDLEY 


OF THE MIDWAY PLAISANCE. 

v 

BY A. B. WARD. 

T he captive bal- 
loon was of less 
imp ortance 
financially than the 
restaurant. Few ven- 
tured intoit, although 
invariably tempted 
to a nearer view of 
the gigantic brown 
forehead, peering 
grimly over the pla- 
carded walls. “ How 
big is it ?” they would 
ask, lounging around 
with their hands in 
their pockets. “ How 
long are the ropes ?” 
“Two dollars, you 
say, to go up ? Does 
that cover the round 
trip?” And they 
usually walked away 
as they came. But 
almost no one escaped out of the restau- 
rant without some expenditure, for the 
waiters were the hardiest set on Midway, 
and when they scowled at a man and 
asked him what he would have, it re- 
quired considerable courage to answer 
“Nothing.” 

If Mrs. Read — or “Mis. Sread,” as they 



02 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


called her — happened to be about, the 
waiters were more courteous. In fact, 
everything went pretty much as Alma 
Read directed, at the sign of the Cap- 
tive Balloon. She controlled the kitchen 
and the cafe, bought the provisions, bul- 
lied the cook, and kept the dish-washers 
from mobbing the newest of their num- 
ber, Letty Anderson, whom they pecked 
at as barnyard fowls peck at a swallow 
because she was so evidently out of her 
sphere. “ You don’t know what you are 
going into,” Alma Read had told her, 
when she presented herself for a po- 
sition, the atmosphere of her country 
home clinging to her neat skirts and 
caiefully-braided hair. 

“ I am determined to see the Fair, 
cried the young enthusiast, “ and I am 
ready to do anything. I couldn’t see it 
without working ; I haven’t the means.” 

“ There are a lot of your kind here,” 
said Alma Read, smiling kindly at Letty; 
and there were. One saw them every- 
where — pushing chairs and taking 
charge of exhibits if they were men, and 
selling baubles in the booths if they were 
women. They looked tired and white 
and bored. One questioned if they were 
getting more than the commercial aspect 
of the Fair. And dish-washing ! 

“ But I have a college professor out 
at the cigar-stand,” said Alma Read. 
‘“Professor Peter Leigh,’ his letters 
come directed to him. He belongs in a 
college somewhere out West. He came 
in one day and asked for work. I told him 
I wanted a night porter. ‘ But,' said I, 


THE MID WA Y PLAISANCE. 93 


* can you stand it to be called Peter, to 
be sworn at and ordered around ?’ He 
said he could, and he came on duty that 
night at eight o’clock, put on his calico 
jumper and overalls, performed his du- 
ties and made no complaint, like the 
gentleman he is. As soon as there 
was a vacancy out there I popped him 
into it.” 

While she talked, Alma Read watched 
the face of the little girl, flushing and 
brightening with sympathy for Profes- 
sor Peter Leigh in his sacriflce of per- 
sonal dignity to the Fair. 

“ That’s just the *vvay I feel,” Letty 
responded eagerly. “ I am ready for any- 
thing.” So she tucked up her sleeves, 
put on a gingham apron, and washed 
beer-mugs and sandwich-plates all day 
long. 

There were other dramatis pcrsonce on 
the boards of the Captive Balloon ; Pro- 
fessor ” Ives, the aeronaut, who man- 
aged the concern ; Mademoiselle, shak- 
ing her curls as a poodle shakes his ears, 
to emphasize the wit of her coquettish 
songs ; Manuelita, dancing the color out 
of her cheeks and the sparkle out of her 
large dark eyes at an hour when she 
should have been in bed, poor child ! the 
Mexican boys, in velvet trousers, em- 
broidered jackets and sombreros, play- 
ing their sweet, melancholy songs with 
a far-away, homesick look ; and Sydow, 
the pianist, bringing drawing-room man- 
ners and a stiff, martial bearing into the 
midst of the informalities of the tent. 
The waiters hated Sydow, the troupe 


94 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


called him a “ queer duck ; ” and Alma 
Read took him under her able protec- 
tion, until by a fillip of Fortune’s finger 
he became the hero of the place, instead 
of the object of its ridicule and scorn. 

But that was later in the season ; now, 
when J uly was scorching the grass along 
the Plaisance and the business of being 
amused had become a serious affair, 
when even the farmers who drifted into 
the tent were critical of the songs and 
dances and “ calkerlated that two dollars 
was a pile o’ money to pay for resken 
life and limb in thet balloon,” and when 
bad temper had accumulated like elec- 
tricity, Sydow’s long, grave face and 
spectacled eyes, and the close-fitting 
black-silk cap which he never removed, 
were the signal for all sorts of irregular- 
ities. 

“ That German chap ’ll have to knock 
down one or two of those waiters if he 
wants to get along,” drawled the aero- 
naut, lounging up to the decorated pen 
where Alma Read was straightening out 
the accounts of the curly-headed cash 
girl. 

“ In just a minute, Mr. Ives,” said 
Alma, abstractedly. “ You say the gen- 
tleman gave a five-dollar gold piece 1 ” 

“Yes’m, and got no change, and he 
thinks Tom has it.” 

“ ril take your place here for an hour 
and you keep out of sight. Tom ’ll 
bring it up here to change it, if he has it. 
Now, Mr. Ives — ” but the aeronaut had 
lounged away. 

With clear gray eyes, which saw ev- 


THE MIDWAY PLAISANCE. 95 


erything without seeming to see, Alma 
watched the rows of little tables and the 
figures that wert to and fro. 

■ Sydow, after a series of wordy argu- 
ments with Jake, in which the latter 
persistently misunderstood him, had ob- 
tained a sandwich, over which he brood- 
ed with the mournfulness of a raven, his 
black cap drawn low on his brows. The 
troupe were lunching noisily at another 
table ; and at still another the Mexicans 
toyed disdainfully with their knives and 
forks. “ I must get those boys some 
curry,” mused Alma. “Ah, there comes 
Tom.” 

Affecting indifference, the white- 
aproned waiter swung up to the window 
and flung a coin on the desk. Alma 
looked up from the book in which she 
was writing. A swift glance shot from 
her eyes into his. He turned without a 
word, took off his apron, and precipi- 
tately left the hall. 

“ D’y^ it ? ” asked the cash-girl, 
coming up. 

“ D’ye get it ? ” echoed Mr. Ives over 
her shoulder. 

For answer Alma held up the coin. 

“ How in the world did you do it ? 
How did you know he had it ? ” asked 
the aeronaut, walking by her side down 
the hall. 

“ I was once a private detective,” an- 
swered the woman quietly. “ Excuse 
me, now, unless there is something in 
particular. I’ve promised to let Miss 
Anderson out of the kitchen for an hour 
with Professor Leigh.” 


96 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


“The little dish-washer? I thought 
so. Good-bye,” and the aeronaut saun- 
tered back to his idle air-ship. 

Like turns to like, everywhere ; most 
of all when surrounded by differing ele- 
ments. Before Letty Anderson had 
been bound to her soapy altar a day, 
her fellow- victim in the court had found 
her out, and had determined to send 
her home if she would go ; if not, why 
then he would make it as pleasant for 
her as possible. And how pleasant that 
was, only those young men and women 
know who varied their tasks at the Fair 
by visits to galleries and museums, who 
saw, together, the Convent and the 
Wooded Island, took gondola rides un- 
der the moon, and heard the German stu- 
dents sing in the streets of old Vienna. 
Not on the tennis-field or in the ball- 
room does companionship become most 
delightful, but where the finer vibra- 
tions of the spirit accompany the tin- 
gling of the nerves. Peter had his 
reward. He heard himself called Pro- 
fessor in a tone which went with the 
title, he was inquired of concerning 
things abtruse and profound, and he 
resumed his role of instructor with a 
pupil who invited instruction. When 
the two put the Captive Balloon behind 
them and went out to see the Fair, none 
would have dreamed that the bright 
face of the girl had been lifted from a 
dish-tub, or that the boy was he who 
regarded the world so fiercely from the 
cigar-stand. 

The story of Tom and the gold piece 


THE MID tFA F PLAISANCE, 97 

had gone from kitchen to court, and Pro- 
fessor Leigh commented upon it to Miss 
Anderson as they walked up Midway. 

“ She certainly is a remarkable wo- 
man,” he said with an apologetic inflec- 
tion. “ The way she manages that 
crowd beats Hagenbeck with the tigers.” 

She told me she was the daughter 
of a jailer,” said Letty, “ and that she 
had learned how much power there is 
in the human eye.” 

“ Did she ? ” exclaimed Peter. “ She 
told me she had been a professional 
nurse, and I heard her say to IMademoi- 
selle that she was on the stage at one 
time.” 

“ She may have been all three,” said 
Letty. “ But I am surprised that she is 
satisfied to be in such a place as that.” 

“ Perhaps she isn’t,” said Peter quiz- 
zically. “ Are you ? ” 

Letty laughed with a blush at her 
own inconsistenc)^ There was a pause, 
and then the professor mounted the 
metaphorical rostrum always at his 
command and began to explain the con- 
tinuous arch of the Ferris Wheel. 

Meanwhile, the glaring day softened 
into twilight, and twilight vanished at 
the rising of the moon. In the tent of 
the Captive Balloon the glasses clinked 
merrily. Mademoiselle, in a vivid yellow 
dress, sang a song, “ The Midway, the 
Midway,” with the shrill re-iterance of a 
cigada ; and Manuelita pirouetted brave- 
ly and shook her ribboned tambourine. 
Following and sustaining them, Sydow 
set his supple fingers to the keys ; his 


98 


OUTING TABRARY, 


figure seemed held erect, as the bal- 
loon was held by its cables — at least 
that was what Alma thought, looking 
on. And having nothing better to do 
she went out to verify her simile by 
comparison. 

There was no one in the yard. The 
black engines glistened in the moon- 
light, the board walks leading to the 
dressing-rooms of the miniature theatre 
were white as snow. Poised on its web 
of cables, the balloon seemed bigger and 
more alive than ever. She tiptoed over 
the ropes and seated herself in the bas- 
ket, which swayed and rocked beneath 
her. She made a picture in this unique 
setting, and realized a lukewarm regret 
that there was none to see. 

The door of a dressing-room opened 
softly, but it was only Sydow. His 
near-sighted eyes failed to find her as 
he advanced stiffly down the walk. He 
believed himself to be alone. When he 
was so near that she might have touched 
him he paused and looked up into the 
sky. “ Ach, mein Gott ! ” he exclaimed, 
and sighed piteously, pushing back his 
cap. The moonlight fell full upon him, 
and there flashed into sight the outline 
of a silver cross set into his forehead. 
“ Mein Gott ! ” he cried again, then drew 
on the cap and went back as he came. 

Alma arose and left the car, deter- 
mined to solve the mystery, but whether 
as the jailer’s daughter in pursuit of a 
culprit, or a detective following up a 
clew, or a nurse filled with pity for a 
suffering man, she herself could not 


THE MID WA Y 1 HAISANCE. 99 


have told. 

As she entered the tent she saw 
Sydow leaving it by the main entrance, 
and, keeping him in sight, she threaded 
her way through the crowd. 

Outside all was gay and bright. The 
arc-lights mocked the midsummer moon 
riding high in the heavens, for it was 
past eleven. Countless lanterns of va- 
rious hues were strung, like Aladdin’s 
jeweled fruit, along the way. The vis- 
itors had left the street to its occupants, 
who came pouring out of their close 
quarters to enjoy the night : dwarfish 
Javanese women in scanty garments, 
tall, striding Arabians in flowing dra- 
peries, turbaned Turks and Armenians, 
Indians with long, straight hair, and 
Persian matrons daintily clad. Tinsel 
puttered and soft tints brightened as 
their wearers passed under the lights. 
The air was full of chattering talk and 
good-humored laughter. Above their 
heads the great wheel defined itself 
against the sky, and on all sides, tower 
and minaret and floating banner min- 
gled in the conglomerate of a restless 
dream. 

Sydow hurried on, under the low 
bridge and across the wide, free spaces 
of the Exposition grounds. Before him 
the tall buildings loomed, ghostly white. 
To the winged forms which wreathed 
them, the wanderer turned as if beseech- 
ing them to take on the human helpful- 
ness they simulated. 

How still it was I Smooth as a mir- 
ror lay the waters of the lagoon, un- 


100 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


broken by an oar ; and the huge, placid 
cattle upon the brink guarded their own 
repose. Baring his brow, Sydow stepped 
out under the open sky. A groan es- 
caped him. With his upturned, yearn- 
ing face, sealed with the silver cross, he 
might have been some martyr-saint, 
praying with clasped hands. 

Gliding from the shadow, Alma ad- 
vanced and laid her hand upon his arm. 
For an instant his brain reeled. In her 
light dress, with her shapely, uncovered 
head, she might have stepped down 
from some cornice or pediment near, as 
pitying statues used to do in the days 
when men were not dependent solely on 
their own poor efforts, or the scanty help 
they get from one another. 

vSeeing his perturbation, she called 
him by name, and he recognized her 
with a laugh which was almost hyster- 
ical. “ What is it, Sydow ? ” she repeated 
soothingly. “ What troubles you ? Tell 
me, and let me help you.” 

“ I am the most unhappy one alive,” 
he sighed, “ and none can help me.” 

“How do you know that.?^’ she an- 
swered briskly. “ Come, sit down on 
this bench and tell me all about it. 
What have you done ? How did you 
get that mark on your forehead V’ 

There is no more wholesome treat- 
ment for morbidness than the assump- 
tion of its absence. Dropping his melo- 
drama, Sydow answered in a voice 
almost as matter-of-fact as her own : 
“ That was gif me in my own country 
on account of a girl ; that was gif me 


THE MID WA Y PLAISANCE, 101 

by her cousin because I try to see her. 
She luv me and I luv her, and they 
would not haf it so, and Fritz, her 
cousin, haf some words with me and 
gif me this.’' He took off the cap al- 
together and permitted her to scrutinize 
the plate covering the fracture in his 
forehead. 

“Queer that it should be just in the 
shape of a cross," she mused, examining 
it with the critical eye of a surgeon. 

“It is a token," cried Sydow;“the 
cross is on my life. I must suffer and 
be alone all my days." 

“ Pshaw ! " said the woman coolly. 
“ You are too sentimental. Go on, what 
next ? " 

“What next?" repeated Sydow, be- 
wildered. 

“ What did you do next ? How long 
ago did this happen ? " 

“Fife years,” said Sydow ; “and I haf 
been so unlucky — ever'ting against 
me." 

“You haven't been here, in this city, 
all the time ? " 

“ No ; I play with an orchestra in New 
Yo’k ; the wiolin is my instrument ; I 

play with " and he named an 

orchestra known to all who know such 
things. 

“ How did you lose your place ? " 

The questions came so quietly, yet 
with such authority, that there was no re- 
senting them or withholding an answer 

“ I behafe bad," he answered with the 
simplicity of a child. “ I haf been a 
fool like ever’ting. I get so discour- 


U)2 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


a^ed, and I want my MinaN The spec- 
tacles over his eyes were foggy as he 
looked at her. 

“ If you really want her/’ said Alma 
with severity, “ why don’t you save 
your money and go back and get her ? ” 

“ They won’t let me haf her, don’t I 
tell you ? ” he cried passionately. 

“Humph!” said the woman before 
him. She rose and stood up, tall and 
strong in the moonlight. “ If I were a 
man,” she said deliberately, and stretch- 
ing out one rounded arm in emphasis as 
she spoke, “ if I were a man and knew 
that the woman I loved loved me, no 
power on earth should keep me away 
from her.” 

Sydow sprang to his feet, his face 
aflame. “And so it shall not,” he shouted. 
“ I will work, I will go, I will claim her. 
Ah, thou hast spoken good words to me 
this night.” Before he had concluded 
she was gone, passing swiftly between 
the buildings, across the parks and into 
Midway, now almost forsaken. 

The night porter greeted her as she 
entered the tent of the Captive Balloon, 
blit she gave no sign of hearing him. 
Like one pursued she traversed the hall 
and entered the tiny room she called 
her own. There she sank upon the 
couch and covered her face with her 
hands. Hour after hour she sat thus, 
with that immobility which does not 
denote calm, but the tenseness of an in- 
ward struggle. When the white light 
of the moon began to be infused with 
the flush of sunrise she arose and un- 


THE MTDWA Y PLAISANCE, lOS 

locked a small trunk, standing in the 
corner. Her hands did not tremble, but 
there was an eagerness in their groping 
like that of one who hungers and reaches 
.out for bread. 

The picture which she pulled out 
from among the piles of clothing was a 
photograph of a man who might have 
been twenty-five or less. The light of 
youth had not faded from his fine, dark 
eyes. The power of youth and its con- 
fidence were in the proud poise of the 
head and in the alertness of every feat- 
ure. Long and earnestly she studied it, 
with a strange, inscrutable smile. Out- 
side, the clatter of dishe.s, the tread of 
feet and loud talk, mingled with a ring- 
ing oath or two, announced the opening 
of the restaurant. The refined face 
before her appeared to frown at the 
vulgarity and the din. 

“No, you never could stand it,” she 
said, shaking her head, the smile still on 
her lips. 

She replaced the picture carefully in 
the trunk and turned the key. Except 
for a hint of shadow under her eyes no 
one would suspect her vigil. Years ago 
she had taught herself to endure and 
show no sign. The desperate men who 
carried trays to the tent of the Captive 
Balloon had hearts of wax compared 
with hers. Yet she kept her cheeks of 
cream, while upon their physiognomies 
“you could have cracked a nut,” as the 
saying goes. 

When, as occasionally happened, the 
balloon was loosed from its moorings 


104 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


and floated off like a big brown bubble, 
the passenger who leaned over the edge 
of the car to look at the retreating pan- 
orama of the Fair saw its enormous 
structures and generous spaces as ant- 
hills and run-ways, swarmed by count- 
less figures, moving in regular procession 
to and fro. 

To search for some particular person 
in that multitude seemed hopeless, as 
many realized who, at one time or an- 
other, lost their grasp upon a com- 
panion in the crowd. To come hither, 
purposing to find some one, without an 
appointed place of meeting, without 
even a clew to the whereabouts of the 
individual, was madness. And yet of 
just such madness was Miss Van Holst 
guilty when she accepted her uncle’s in- 
vitation to visit America and the Expo- 
sition, together with his daughters Irma 
and Gertrude, and his son Fritz. Was 
not Hermann in America ? And were 
not all the world to be at the Fair } So 
Mina threw off the melancholy which 
had oppressed her, and was so exacting 
about the becomingness of her travel- 
ing gown that her aunt and cousins 
whispered behind her back, “ She has 
forgotten him.” 

Forgotten him ! It seemed to Mma 
that her tell-tale heart would betray it- 
self by its loud beating when she fol- 
lowed her uncle and cousins through 
the turnstile of the Exposition grounds 
and gazed at the sunny splendor of the 
halls beneath whose arches she ex- 
pected to find her lover. As the days 


THE MID WA Y FLAISANCE, 105 


went on however, and among the 
thousands whom she met the longed-for 
face did not appear, the high white 
buildings took on a cold, forbidding 
look, and from the multitudinous treas- 
ure which they held she turned with 
loathing. In vain Irma and Gertrude 
called her to admire this and that ; in 
vain Fritz pestered her with attentions ; 
they could not rouse her from her 
apathy. 

“The child needs amusement,” said 
her uncle. “ My own head whirls with 
trying to take in the sights. We will 
go down to Midway and have a good 
laugh.” 

And to Midway they went : to the in- 
nocent gayety and the monotonous music 
of a Javanese wedding; to a homelike 
German cottage, out of whose small- 
paned window Mina stared with a 
white, desperate face, while the rest ex- 
claimed over carved chairs and curious 
dishes ; to Cairo street, where Irma and 
Gertrude mounted a camel and 
screamed with laughter as it strode 
along, where Fritz hung his long legs 
over a donkey to run races with an 
American youth who cried “ Sick-em ! ” 
to his knowing little beast. 

Every one laughed — every one but 
Mina, who waited, dejectedly, sitting on 
the steps of a store where lotos bloomed 
in queer glass jars, noting the perfume 
but not caring to lift her head to learn 
whence it came. Their romping over, 
the cousins returned and led the way to 
the temple of Luxor, into whose shady 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


106 

recesses the scarlet-robed priests were 
bearing- their boat-like shrine. List- 
lessly Mina followed. The dervishes 
gathered in a circle and swayed to and 
fro, wagging their heads. A white - 
robed priestess arose, and extending 
her wing-like sleeves, whirled around 
and around in utter surrender to the 
strange tinkling music and the jar of 
her own throbbing pulses. A sudden 
dizziness seized Mina, looking on. “ I 
am faint ; I will go out to the door un- 
til you come,” she whispered to Irma. 
Fritz, sitting near, caught the words. 

“ I will go too,” he whispered, offi- 
cioiisly leaving his seat. 

“ Do let me alone for an instant,” ex- 
claimed Mina, and pushing her way 
past him, hurried down the aisle. She 
saw, on pillar and wall, in colors which 
emphasized their grotesqueness, Osiris 
and Ammon-Ra, and Egyptian heroes, 
armed and splendid. She saw the 
mummy-cases arranged in rows, each 
upraised lid wrought into the image of 
a human form ; each smiling, stolid face 
lit by the lamp swung under its bearded 
chin. 

“ Rameses II., who persecuted the Is- 
raelites,” read Mina, and bent forward 
curiously. Small, cruel eyes, showing 
beadlike, under half-closed lids; thin, 
dry lips, parted over broken yellow 
teeth, answered her innocent glance. 
He knew, this black-visaged king, what 
was in her heart, and mocked her ten- 
der quest, as he had mocked the zeal of 
Moses centuries ago. “ Look at me,” 


THE MID \VA Y DLAISANCE. 107 


he said, “ and see what becomes of love 
and hope.” 

With a smothered cry the frightened 
girl rushed from the place. Down the 
steps and through the crowded street 
she flew, past the camels and their 
laughing loads, the small, scudding 
donkeys and the noisy lads, out into the 
broad Plaisance, and on still, never stop- 
ping until she saw, within a stone’s 
throw, the square yellow and white 
gates which marked the limit of the 
Fair. This, then, was the end of the 
long, weary search ! The taunting hor- 
ror of the coffined face arose before 
her. “Life and Love and Hope are 
brief,” it said. “ Only Death is long.” 

“ Help me, oh, help me ! ” she 
moaned. “ Pitying Mother of God, I 
shall go mad ! ” 

“ Mina, Mina,” rang out above the 
hum of many voices and the tread of 
many feet. “ Mina, heart’s dearest, 
thou art come.” 

Then all the crowded street and 
climbing towers went around before 
her eyes, and Mina fell, but knew in 
falling that her head was on Hermann’s 
breast and his arms were around her. 

The procession moving up and down 
Midway stopped to stare, the waiters of 
the Captive Balloon came out like bees 
and swarmed around with offers of as- 
sistance, but to none would Sydow in- 
trust his precious burden. 

“ Take her right into my room,” said 
Alma, and led the way herself. 

“ She is not dead ! Mein Gott ! she 


108 


OUTING LiniiARY. 


is not dead ? ” cried Sydow, so white was 
the fair round face upon the pillows. 

“ Nonsense ; she will be all right in a 
minute,” answered Alma, slapping and 
pulling the limp form which Sydow had 
been treating as if it were china. Pres- 
ently the childish blue eyes opened, and 
then, with mingled tears and smiles, in 
broken English and impetuous German, 
the lovers tried to tell each other in a 
moment’s time all that happened in the 
long five years. 

The silver cross Mina devoutly ac- 
cepted as a sign of consecration, and 
Sydow had not the heart to tell her 
upon what inappropriate scenes its light 
had shone. 

After an hour had passed they heard 
loud voices in the hall outside and Mina 
looked as if about to repeat her swoon. 

“ It is my uncle and Fritz, with Irma 
and Gertrude,” she said faintly. 

Sydow started up as if to defy them, 
but Mina threw her arms around him. 
“No, no ; not that again,” she begged. 
“ See, the kind woman has gone to 
meet them.” 

Through the partly-opened door they 
saw Alma advance with more than her 
wonted dignity toward the excited 
quartet, who stood gesturing and de- 
claiming in the center of the room. 
“Were you looking for some one ?” they 
heard her ask. 

“Yes,” roared Mina’s uncle, “and if 
I don’t get an answer soon from this 
impudent lot of lackeys I’ll break their 
heads.” 


THE MID WA Y PL A ISANCE. 109 


The waiters grinned. 

“ For whom were you looking ?” asked 
Alma, quietly. 

“ For my niece, Mina Van Holst,” re- 
plied the other. “ I know she is here, for 
people in the street saw her carried in.” 

“Miss Van Holst is here,” replied 
Alma, “but she is with Baron Sydow 
her betrothed husband, and they do not 
wish to be disturbed.” 

“ Baron Sydow ! Ten thousand devils ! 
Is Sydow here ?” exclaimed Mina’s uncle. 
Fritz advanced a step or two and there 
was an angry glitter in his eyes. 

“ Yes ; Baron Sydow is here with her, 
and they do not wish to be disturbed,” 
repeated Alma. 

“Tell him Fritz Van Holst requires 
his presence,” said the cousin. 

Alma stood haughtily before him. “ I 
will tell him nothing,” she replied. 

What he said then, under his breath, 
and in his own tongue, the watchful 
waiters did not know, but they read the 
meaning of the sneer upon his face and 
sprang forward, to a man, lining up 
before their mistress, exulting in the 
opportunity, new to them, of array- 
ing themselves on the side of law and 
order, yet with the prospect of a fight. 

Fritz cooled. There was a grewsome 
air of experience about the gang, which 
would lead a bolder man than he to 
deliberate. He said afterward that Irma 
and Gertrude held him back. 

At any rate, the besieging party some- 
how deemed it advisable to leave the 
field, promising, however, to return to- 


110 


OUTING JABRARY, 


morrow with re-enforcements. 

“ Now take her to a minister or a 
magistrate and have the knot tied,” 
'counseled Alma, letting the pair out of 
the door of the tent, while an admiring 
audience stood on tiptoe to get a look 
at them. 

But Baron Sydow threw his head 
back proudly. “ I shall send her to Ger- 
many, to my own people,” he said, 
loftily, ‘‘ and when I am through here I 
will go there to be married.” 

“ Are you a fool ?” stormed Alma. 
“ Don’t you let her out of your sight. 
Hold her fast now that you have her, 
or you don’t deserve to be happy.” 

“Aw right, aw right,” stammered 
Sydow ; “jus’ as you say,” and away he 
went, walking on air. 

The audience disappeared, with the 
exception of the waiters, who took ad- 
vantage of a lull in business to talk 
over the affair. 

“ I know how it was, just as well as if 
I’d been there,” said Jake, when various 
conjectures were made as to “ how 
Seedy got his head stove in.” 

“ Huh ! you know too much,” said 
Tom, contemptuously. 

“ Shut up,” interposed Sam. “ Less 
hear.” 

“Well, it was like this,” said Jake : 
“ Seedy comes up, bold as brass, and 
says, ‘Gi’ me my girl ! ’ and the old 
man, he says, ‘Yer can’t have her.’ 
Whiles they were a-talkin’, the two 
fricassees as were here to-day gets hold 
of Seedy’s two arms, and this 3^oung 


THE MIDWAY PLAISANCE 111 

chap who thinks he’s so smart outs 
with a knife and cuts him so,” and Jake 
made a lunge forward in illustration. 

“ Sounds reasonable,” said Sam, nod- 
ding wisely; and Jake’s story of the 
fracas became the accepted version. As 
to the hero himself, he was bewildered 
by the changed attitude of the waiters. 
Sam took his hat and Tom his umbrella, 
and Jake yelled his order across the 
wooden counter in tones which could 
be heard half a mile away — that is, 
when the Dahomey warriors were not 
disporting on the roof opposite. 

“Seedy’s a soft-spoken chap,” Jake 
would say when the gang rehearsed his 
romance among themselves. “ But he’s 
a tarrier when he gits started.” 

Sydowhad to accept the absurd quali- 
ties in which they arrayed him, as he 
accepted the mantle of Mina’s loving 
idealization. Tne very tent and pavilion 
of the Captive Balloon were touched by 
the Ithuriel spear of Sydow’s romance. 
Allusions to the tender passion bright- 
ened all the songs. The air was full of 
sentiment. 

“ He’ll be the next,” said Alma, watch- 
ing Professor Leigh unfold Miss Ander- 
son’s umbrella and guide her careful- 
ly around a puddle. He was. He an- 
nounced it the following day, with a 
gravity which hardly suited so joyous a 
theme. 

“ I have something of a confidential 
nature to disclose to you, Mrs. Read,’.’ 
he said, solemnly. “ I am engaged to 
Miss Letty Anderson,” 


112 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


“Why, yes, of course,” said Alma — 
“ I mean I am very glad. 1 hope you will 
be happy.” 

“ Thank you,” said Peter simply, and 
looked the boy he really was. “ I shall 
always remember, and so will Miss An- 
derson, how kind you have been to us 
both.” 

“ It is nice to be young,” Alma said 
to herself, smiling, as he walked away. 
Alma was twenty-five. 

A harsh voice broke in upon her rev- 
erie. “ What are you doing here ? ” it 
asked. 

She turned to confront the only man 
in the world who could shake her self- 
control. For an instant the steady gray 
eyes wavered and then they traveled 
swiftly over the unattractive figure be- 
fore them, taking in the shabby frock 
coat, the battered hat, the dissipated 
face with its triumphant smile. 

“ What are yoti doing ? ” she asked. 

“ I am looking for my wife,” he an- 
swered with a leer. “ She knows what 
I always want. Come, shell out.” 

Without reply she led him to the lit- 
tle room which had witnessed such a 
different meeting a few days before. 

“ How much must you have ? ” she 
inquired, throwing back the trunk-lid. 

“ ‘ IFdw much must I have ? ’ ” he re- 
peated, mockingly. “ Hullo! who’s that?” 

The picture lay with its face turned 
upward, where she had placed it the 
morning after her talk with Sydow. 

“Give it to me !” she demanded, with 
flashing eyes, as he caught it up for in- 


THE MIDWAY FLAISANCE. 113 


spection. 

“ Who the devil is it, anyway ? ” He 
scowled at the beauty of the face. 

“ A physician in C , where you left 

me without a cent three years ago, I 
nursed a patient for him.” 

“ The devil you did ! ” 

“ Give it to me ! ” she cried, stretching 
out her hand. 

“ Give me the money first and I will.” 

She flung the purse unopened at him. 
With a brutal laugh he tore the card 
across and tossed the halves into her 

lap, then went out and slammed the door. 
***** 

To the cities built upon the shore of 
the great inland lakes there comes, 
sometimes, in mid- August, a chill as of 
winter. The rain falls in torrents and 
the wind rages like an uncaged beast. 
Such a chill, attended by such a storm, 
came to the city of the World’s Fair the 
night after Alma’s interview with her 
husband. The stately palaces of the 
Exposition leaked dismally, in spite of 
the efforts of workmen and guards. On 
Midway, many a flimsy structure went 
down before the gale. The pavilion of 
the Captive Balloon looked like the 
drenched deck of an ocean steamer, the 
central office serving for a pilot-house. 
Over its wet, slippery floors, the waiters 
dragged chairs and tables to a place of 
safety. 

About the shelterless balloon the rain 
and wind whirled with redoubled fury. 
“Varnished silk and hempen twine — 
bah ! ” said the rain. “ Wooden clappers 


OUTING LIBBARY. 


lU 

and bags of sand — pouf ! said the wind ; 
and they dashed against it, pulling and 
pushing, till a cable snapped. Then 
how they pounded the helpless thing 
over the ground. 

“ Gone up, that’s a fact ! ” said Ives, 
examining the wreck by the morning’s 
sunshine. 

“Gone down, you mean,” said Alma 
with a faint smile. 

“ And there’s that blamed concession,” 
continued the aeronaut, gnawing his 
mustache. “We can’t stop; we’ll have 
to make the restaurant and the stage 
pay as well as we can. You’ll have to 
keep right on, Mrs. Read.” 

“ Oh, yes,” replied Alma, gravely ; 
“ I’ll have to keep right on.” 



I 


1 


i 


A VERY STR^GE CASE. 

BY WILLIAM HINCKLEY. 

“TV ^ ANY singular things have come 
I ^ I under my notice during an ex- 
1 L perience of thirty years in the 
tracing of criminals and the 
punishment of their misdeeds, but I 
think the case of the unfortunate young 
fellow whose photograph you see there 
is the most remarkable.” 

The speaker, a grizzled inspector of 

police of the city of N , tapped 

the glass covering the likeness of a 
handsome man of not more than thirty. 
The face was that of a person of refine- 
ment and intelligence, and I was pre- 
pared for the next words which fell 
from my companion’s lips. 

“ It is seldom that a man is led to do 
wrong, when apparently he has no 
reason for it, as was the case with 
young Harden, whose picture that is. 
We are not surprised when a man steals 
because fortune has not given him 
enough to live on, or when he feels that 
society ‘ owes him a living,’ as the say- 
ing is ; but this young fellow came of 
one of the best families in the State, 
and never wanted for a thing that 
money could buy, yet for him the life of 
a criminal possessed a fatal attraction.” 

We were interrupted by the entrance 
of a subordinate, who saluted and pre- 
sented a note. Hastily tearing it open, 
the inspector read it, and turning to 
me said : “ An appointment down town 


116 


OUTING LIB BABY. 


at four. I have just time to. make it ; 
I’ll be back in the course of an hour. 
In the meantinie make yourself at 
home. You’ll find a box of Havanas in 
the top drawer — matches there ; and 
here, read this — it’s a sort of diary that 
we found at the Harden house when the 
end of the young fellow’s career came 
and, thrusting into my hand a dozen or 
fifteen loose sheets of foolscap, the vet- 
eran hastily quitted the room. 

I had plenty of leisure, and the cozy 
little office at headquarters was not at 
all an unpleasant place in which to pass 
time, so, taking the manuscript, I lighted 
one of my friend’s cigars and seated my- 
self in his revolving chair, prepared to 
learn the history of the young fellow of 
whom we had been speaking. I could 
not, however, put his face from my mind, 
and, rising, I strode across the room to 
where the photograph hung in its small 
oak frame. “Surely,” thought I, “his 
was never intended for the life of a 
criminal ! Men of that class show evi- 
dences of their evil lives in their coun- 
tenances, but here is one whom I could 
not think to find in a place of this sort.” 
I gazed at it long and earnestly, before 
resuming my chair, and then took up 
the manuscript, strongly predisposed 
toward the writer. 

The characters were firm and regular, 
and the closely-written sheets were as 
legible as type. They bore no title, and, 
judging from their general appearance, 
were evidently not intended to become 
public property. They read as follows : 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 117 

“To-day there comes over me a pre- 
sentiment I cannot throw off, and some- 
thing beyond my power to resist bids 
me set down here the history of my 
wasted life. 

“ I am young — not yet thirty, wealthy 
and — yes — and handsom-e, so my friends 
tell me, though perhaps their judgment 
is at fault. I was born in this old place, 
and have lived here most of my life, 
since my father’s death with no other 
companion than my Scotch collie ‘ Mac.' 
Two old and tried servants of my fam- 
ily, Elias the butler and his wife Emily, 
manage to keep things in order about 
the house, for me, and yield unquestion- 
ing obedience to their master’s some- 
what capricious wishes. My numerous 
friends often wonder that I have never 
married, but not having met my ideal 
in the other sex, I am satisfied to wait, 
and, indeed, if the truth were told, well 
contented to enjoy so-called single 
blessedness for some years to come. 

“ I fear I am a good deal of a hermit in 
my inclinations, and could wish that I 
was beyond the reach of boredom, in 
which dwell so many of those who 
style themselves my friends. As it is, I 
doubt not that they think me a crank, 
but I regard their opinion on this point 
rather lightly. I find entertainment 
in the companionship of Mac, and to- 
gether we spend many hoiirs roaming 
about the estate in fine weather, or re- 
maining in my old-fashioned library 
when the elements combine to make 
outdoor life disagreeable. At such 


118 


OUTING LTBTURY. 


seasons it is my pleasure to take down 
from the shelves such of the old vol- 
umes as appeal to my love of the mys- 
terious and the romantic, while old 
Mac lies stretched at my feet with a 
satisfied look, in his brown eyes, as 
though that was the one spot in the 
world in which he wished to be at that 
particular moment. Sometimes I find 
my thoughts wandering into the land 
of reverie and speculation, and Mac 
seems to know just what I’m scheming 
about, for he appears to give a knowing 
wink, as though congratulating himself 
upon being his master’s only co7i fidant. 

“ I have said I loved mystery. Ever 
since childhood, when my old nurse 
poured into my listening ear strange 
stories of brownies, kelpies, hobgoblins, 
elves and such folk, I have been keenly 
alive to things supernatural, and, as I 
grew to the impressionable age of boy- 
hood, my taste for literature naturally 
fell into the channels one might expect 
from such antecedents. Doubtless my 
good old father would have been in 
despair had he been told of this phase 
of his hopeful son’s character, but he 
did not know. My mother died when I 
was a small child, and he relied implic- 
itly upon the judgment and good sense 
of old nurse to look after my mental 
and physical development, merely in- 
quiring into the plans and projects af- 
fecting my welfare. My voracious appe- 
tite for reading, therefore, satiated itself 
with stories of brigands and highway- 
men, freebooters and plunder, detectives 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 119 


and crime, to an alarming extent. Poor 
old nurse was but a sorry scholar, and 
knew little or nothing about books, so, 
when she saw me leave the house with 
a volume under my arm, and knew that 
I could be found at any hour thereafter 
lying under the outspreading branches 
of the majestic trees at the edge of the 
grove near the house, she was satisfied, 
and went about her other duties, un- 
doubtedly feeling that her charge was 
fast growing to be an adornment to the 
world of literature and wisdom gener- 
ally. 

“ As years passed, it became necessary 
for me to fit myself for the position in 
society which the wealth and standing 
of my father assured me, and I was ac- 
cordingly sent to a university, where I 
made rapid progress, and from which I 
was graduated at the age of twenty with 
fair groundwork on which to lay my 
future career. Then followed several 
years spent in traveling, in company 
with my parent, who dearly loved to go 
about, and we visited nearly every coun- 
try on the globe, passing our time judi- 
ciously in such places as took our fancy, 
and naturally I saw many things that fed 
the flame of my earlier thoughts, modi- 
fied but not eradicated by a broader ex- 
perience. 

“ At the time of life when young men 
most need the counsel of their parents 
I was left an orphan and sole heir to 
this estate and the immense wealth of 
my father. 

“ Early in the morning of an oppres- 


120 


OUTING JAB R ARY. 


sive day in July, several years ago, I 
was seated in my customary easy chair 
reading the daily paper, old Mac, as 
usual, at my feet, when my eye fell upon 
an account of a burglary committed in a 
neighboring city. The burglar was evi- 
dently a blunderer, at least so I thought, 
for he had been taken almost in the 
act, and I fell to mentally criticising 
his mistakes. With the aid of the news- 
paper description, I was able to arrange 
the crime for him as it should have been 
carried out, and so sure was I of the suc- 
cess of my method that I conceived the 
ridiculous idea of putting it into execu- 
tion, ‘just to prove the correctness of 
my theory,’ I said to myself. I laughed 
aloud at the utter absurdity of a wealthy 
and independent man like me becoming 
a housebreaker, and, strange to relate, 
the ethical side of the matter did not 
then present itself to my mind, or, if 
so, with little emphasis, and I looked 
upon the thing as a monstrously good 
joke. 

“ As I pondered over it, the scheme 
seemed more and more feasible, and 
presently I had evolved a plan of cam- 
paign which promised much diversion. 
To be sure there was an element of 
danger in it, but I liked it rather bet- 
ter on that account. 

“ With men of my temperament, 
action follows promptly upon the con- 
ception of an idea, and I at once wrote to 
a firm of safe-makers in a distant city, 
who were familiar to me, asking them to 
send a representative to N for 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. I2l 


consultation. It was my intention, as 
part of my scheme, to have an iron 
vault constructed below ground, and in 
due time I arranged the preliminaries to 
my entire satisfaction. 

“ To the vault builders I was simply 
a man of evident wealth, requiring 
a place of security in which to keep 
valuables, and my request that the 
matter be kept a profound secret 
was to them a most natural one. I 
did not wish even my good servants 
to be informed of the proposed exten- 
sion to the house, and to insure their 
ignorance on this point I gave them 
permission to pay a visit of a few weeks 
to a relative living at some distance. I 
told them I expected to have some slight 
improvements made, and until these 
were completed would take up my resi- 
dence at one of the hotels in the city. 
The simple-hearted old people were de- 
lighted at the opportunity given them 
for an outing, and were soon on their 
way. 

“ To keep the existence of the vault 
from the knowledge of my somewhat 
inquisitive neighbors was a matter of 
more difficulty, but this, too, was ac- 
complished by having the metal plates 
brought to the house in boxes, while 
the bricks and other material would as 
well have suggested any ordinary ma- 
son work and excited little comment. 

“ So quickly and well did the builders 
perform their work that my vault was 
completed and ready for inspection 
within a little more than ten days. 


122 


OUTING LIB B ARY. 


The interior is provided with several 
tiers of strong boxes, each in itself as 
secure as it could be made, while the 
vault is a model of its kind and thor- 
oughly burglar proof, as I spared no 
expense to have it made so. Its dimen- 
sions inside are about six feet each 
way, which gives ample space for a 
person to stand within it comfortably. 
The room in which it is built is just 
enough larger than the vault to admit 
of the door of the latter opening freely, 
while it is in turn closed by a door, 
somewhat less secure than that of the 
vault, but calculated to act as a safe- 
guard in case of necessity. To conceal 
the approach to the vault, the bookcase 
on the north side of the room has been 
arranged to swing on invisible hinges, 
and is fastened by a spring-lock from 
behind, which is released by a wire con- 
ducted to another part of the library. 
Leading from the entrance thus pro- 
vided is a flight of stone steps, which 
ends abruptly at the door of the vault- 
room. As I look back upon this stage 
of my new career, I remember the feel- 
ing of intense satisfaction which I had 
at the successful issue of this step — 
there were the burglar and his hiding- 
place and it only remained to provi& 
something to hide. 

“With the return of Elias and Emily 
our little household resumed its former 
quiet routine, as far as they were con- 
cerned, but not so with their master ; 
having taken the first step on his down- 
ward career, he was impatient to take 


A VERY STRANGE CASE, 


123 


the next, and to that end it was neces- 
sary to provide some kind of a disguise. 
A rusty old suit of my father’s (wicked 
perversion of its former character), 
together with an old slouch hat, served 
very well for this purpose, but to obtain 
the needed tools with which to ply my 
nefarious craft, without attracting at- 
tention, was a source of considerable 
anxiety to me, and, indeed, the danger 
of discovery seemed so great that I 
finally determined to make them myself. 
A taste for mechanics when I was a 
lad had resulted in a workshop being 
fitted up on the place, and this still 
remained as I left it years ago. To 
convert an old crow-bar into a very re- 
spectable ‘jimmy’ (if such an instru- 
ment is ever respectable), was an easy 
matter, and as I had not contemplated 
attacking safes, I did not provide a 
very extensive outfit beyond this. As 
I write, the incongruity of my position 
comes to me, and I see myself as I would 
appear to the world at large, were they 
aware that the talented man of wealth, 
Ernest Marden, was a common, or rather 
an uncommon, housebreaker. 

“ Having settled upon the country 
which I deemed most promising as a 
field of operations, I informed my serv- 
ants of my intention to be absent for a 
week or so, which was nothing unusual, 
as it is my habit to come and go as 
my somewhat eccentric fancy prompts, 
and, with grip in hand I found myself 
toward dusk in a town of considerable 
size, about fifty miles east of here, where 


124 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


I obtained lodgings at an inn of mod- 
erate charges. As the time approached 
for my first attempt at burglary, I felt 
my courage oozing through my finger- 
tips, and realized that my whole scheme 
would be a fiasco unless I summoned 
my former confidence ; but with the 
coming of darkness all my old spirit of 
recklessness and bravado returned, and, 
having dropped my valise from my win- 
dow, I silently quitted my room, fully 
equipped for the work before me. 

“ I directed my steps through unfre- 
quented streets to a handsome residence 
on the outskirts of the town, which I 
had been told by one of the towns- 
people, in reply to an off-hand question, 
was the property of a wealthy family 
who were then absent for the summer 
season. I was also told that the only 
persons in charge of the place, in the 
absence of the owner, were two or three 
female servants and an old butler. 

“ A brisk walk brought me to the 
hedge surrounding the grounds, which 
I readily recognized from my inform- 
ant’s description, and, peering over, I 
could see the house — a fine old place 
surrounded by stately elms, as near as I 
could judge in the darkness. An oil 
lamp at the carriage entrance threw 
out the only light visible in the imme- 
diate neighborhood, and, as if to further 
aid me, the dark wind-clouds scurrying 
across the sky made the blackness more 
profound, while the muttering thunder 
in the distance gave promise of a storm. 
Every condition seemed favorable to a 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 125 


successful termination of my venture 

“‘Just such a night as I could have 
wished,’ I murmured to myself, and, 
pulling my hat down so as to somewhat 
disguise my features, I grasped my 
valise firmly, and, leaping lightly over 
the hedge, paused for a further inspec- 
tion of the place, which showed me that 
the house was about fifty yards back 
from the road, and was surrounded by 
many shrubs and plants. 

“ I carefully began a circuit of inspec- 
tion to make sure of leaving no source 
of danger between me and my base of 
operations, and it was well I did so, for at 
the rear I came upon a large dog asleep 
in front of his kennel. So still did he 
lie that he might have been taken for a 
stone image, but his presence was most 
unwelcome at that particular time and 
place. He seemed a fine fellow, and I 
was loath to do so, but I knew it was 
necessary to deprive him of the means 
of giving an alarm, so I grasped my 
jimmy and approached him as noise- 
lessly as a panther. To raise the ter- 
rible weapon with both hands and bring 
it down on his head was the work of an 
instant. I don’t believe he ever knew 
what killed him, for the blow caused 
the heavy bar to crush through his 
skull, and he uttered not a sound, a, con- 
vulsive quivering of his body being all 
that denoted it to have possessed life a 
moment before. 

“ Quickly recovering my balance, for 
I had been well-nigh overthrown by the 
sudden termination of the stroke, I 


12 (> 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


hastily withdrew to the protection of a 
large bush and awaited developments. 
The wind moaning in the trees about 
the mansion, coupled with a feeling of 
repulsion at the deed I had just com- 
mitted, gave me the ‘ creevils ’ (as old 
nurse was wont to term the uncanny 
feeling produced on her nerves by any- 
thing unnatural in her vicinity), but the 
fast flying moments warned me to pro- 
ceed. 

“ Banishing the uneasiness which had 
begun to steal into my mind, I crept to 
the nearest window and peeped m. A 
chance flash of lightning illuminated 
the interior, and showed me that I was 
at a favorable point for entrance, so I 
inserted the jaw of my jimmy under the 
sash, the blinds being open, and cau- 
tiously forced it upward. Slowly it 
rose, with a crunching sound, the screws 
of the old-fashioned catch giving way 
under the strain, and presently I had 
an opening wide enough to put my arm 
through. I waited a few minutes to see 
if the slight noise had aroused any of 
the inmates, but, all remaining as silent 
as before, I raised the window and 
stealthily entered. My heart thrilled 
with a new and strange emotion as I re- 
alized that I was actually committing an 
unlawful act, and, feeling the danger of 
my position if discovered, I panted with 
excitement till it seemed to my sensitive 
nerves that I would surely betray my 
presence. But I grew calmer, and with 
careful tread began an inspection of the 
rooms. That in which I stood seemed 


127 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 

to be the library, while beyond was the 
dining-room, the drawing-room being 
located on the opposite side of the wide 
hall, the linen-covered furniture within it 
standing out in ghostly prominence as 
the constantly recurring flashes of light- 
ning chased the darkness from the rooms 
for an instant. Without, the storm was 
now at its height, and the thunder 
crashed and rumbled so incessantly that 
I doubt not I could have upset a table 
with very little danger of the sound 
reaching the dull ears of the persons 
sleeping above, A strong odor of wine 
pervaded the dining-room, and I saw by 
the remains of a feast that the servants 
must have been carousing earlier in the 
night, and the empty bottles and glasses, 
soiled table, and generally untidy ap- 
pearance of everything encouraged me 
to look for little interruption in my 
work, as far as the revellers were con- 
cerned, and so it proved ; for although 
I spent an hour or more rummaging 
the rooms for booty, nothing occurred 
to cause me any alarm, and I left by 
the open window, having secured a 
French clock, several fine bisque pieces, 
which I wrapped in heavy linen nap- 
kins from the buffet, some small articles 
of table silver, and such other things 
of value as I could stow into my valise 
without arousing suspicion, and was 
altogether quite satisfied with the re- 
sults of my maiden effort. 

“ I reached my lodgings without at- 
tracting attention, though feeling wet 
and uncomfortable from the still falling 


128 


OUTING LIB NARY. 


rain, and the next day left town at an 
early hour, once more attired in my ex- 
pensive clothes, and not at all a sus- 
picious-looking individual. Arrived at 
home, and having bathed and attired 
myself in a lounging suit, I called Elias 
and instructed him not to permit any one 
to disturb me, and entered my library, 
to all intents and purposes with the 
idea of spending an afternoon with my 
books. 

“ I was highly elated at the unbounded 
success which attended my first ad- 
venture, and truly a burglar could not 
have been more favored had his patron 
saint arranged his affairs for him. I 
swung the book-case concealing the 
secret stairway, and, drawing it into 
place behind me, descended to the vault. 
Here I opened one of the small strong 
boxes and deposited my ill-gotten prop- 
erty, pasting upon the outside of the 
door a paper bearing the date of the 
burglary, name of the place, and a brief 
list of my trophies. 

“ When I returned to my easy chair, 
with all traces of my late expedition 
removed from sight, I gave myself up to 
keen enjoyment. That I had proved 
my theory to be correct, and given an 
exhibition of my skill (perhaps I should 
say my good fortune), was patent, and 
I resolved to try again. 

“ The newspapers of the following 
morning contained a graphic account of 
the crime, and announced that a tramp, 
who had been seen about the place the 
previous day and could give no satisfac- 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 


129 


tory explanation of his presence, was in 
custody on suspicion of having commit- 
ted it. I could not restrain a feeling of 
fraternal sympathy for the poor wretch, 
but eased my conscience (for I still had 
one), with the thought that he was prob- 
ably where he belonged. One thing that 
caused me huge delight was the fact 
that the owner of the house was reported 
to be a Mr. Scarborough, who I remem- 
bered, with a start, was my father’s for- 
mer law partner ! The idea was so inex- 
pressibly funny that I was strongly 
tempted to drop him a line stating that 
I had knowledge of the thief, who could 
be persuaded to return the stolen prop- 
erty if assured of immunity from prose- 
cution, but a realization of the embar- 
rassing position in which I should place 
myself warned me not to attempt it. 
Dignified old J udge Scarborough ! How 
amazed he would have been to have 
learned that the son of his old friend had 
called to see him in his absence, and 
feloniously abstracted some of his goods 
and chattels ! 

“ As time passed I added to the prop- 
erty in my vault, choosing as the scenes 
of my exploits the houses of wealthy 
persons who were away from home, 
until six of the boxes were filled and 
labeled, and the newspapers teemed 
with reports of mysterious burglaries, 
no clue to the perpetrators being dis- 
covered. I remember the sense of hu- 
miliation which weighed down my soul 
upon reading in one. of these accounts : 
‘ The burglar is evidently a novice, as he 


ISO 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


took articles of small value, passing over 
property worth ten times as much as he 
secured.’ I allowed sufficient time to 
elapse for the occupants of that house to 
be lulled into a sense of security, then I 
went and removed the more valuable 
property that I had overlooked on my 
first visit. I think those people will be 
more reticent when talking to press re- 
porters in future. 

“ Flushed with success, in an evil mo- 
ment I attempted an entrance into a 
house in this city and made a signal 
failure of it. Indeed, I nearly met my 
Waterloo there, though I managed to 
escape detection by a fortunate train of 
circumstances. This led to unusual ac- 
tivity among the local police, and an 
abandonment of any more attempts in 
my immediate neighborhood ; but to 
make sure that no suspicion could rest 
upon me, I thought it necessary to com- 
mit a cautious robbery of my own house, 
by which I /ost considerable property, 
the difference between me and my other 
victims being that / knew where to find 
mine. As a further precaution, I em- 
ployed a detective to trace the perpetra- 
tor of this last impudent theft, but so 
well had I managed that he was final- 
ly compelled to admit himself baffled, 
though he said he strongly suspected 
my butler. I could hardly maintain a 
straight face at this remarkable conclu- 
sion of my efforts to hide my tracks, but 
I managed to conceal my amusement 
and, with an affected sigh of disappoint- 
ment, paid the detective’s fee, and he 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 


131 


retired, rather crestfallen at his failure. 

After his departure I did not make 
another attempt for several weeks, and, 
indeed, it was not until ten days ago 
that I renewed my ill-favored pastime. 
This last burglary has been the most 
profitable of all, and box number seven 
contains property of great value. Among 
other things, there reposes within it a 
masterpiece of the jeweler’s art in the 
form of a Swiss watch of priceless worth. 
I rather pitied the owner for its loss 
but kept it with the idea that I might be 
encouraging the jeweler’s trade by so 
doing. 

“ One by one my ” 

Here the strange narrative of young 
Marden abruptly terminated, and though 
I searched for further documents bear- 
ing upon his case, I could find no more, 
so there was nothing to be done but to 
wait for the return of the inspector, who 
I thought could probably throw more 
light on his subsequent history. In the 
mean time I read the story again and 
again, with added interest, and found 
myself hesitating between amazement 
at the direction taken by the genius of 
the young fellow and admiration at the 
skillful way in which he had escaped 
detection. One thing which puzzled me 
a good deal was the fact that the in- 
spector had spoken of him as being 
“ unfortunate,” whereas, according to his 
own account, he appeared to have been 
anything but that. But my musings 
were brought to an end by the arrival of 
the old man, who, seeing me still occii- 


132 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


pied with the manuscript, surmised what 
I had in mind. 

“Well, sir,” said he, “what do you 
think of him ? ” 

“ I hardly know,” I answered. “ It is 
most disappointing to find the manu- 
script incomplete. I wish he had fin- 
ished it instead of stopping so abruptly. 
Can you tell me anything more about 
him? You spoke of him as being ‘ un- 
fortunate ’ — what did you mean ? ” 

“Certainly, I can tell you what our 
investigation disclosed, though it was 
by the merest accident. You will ob- 
serve that Harden speaks of his dog 
Mac. Well, the brute was the unwit- 
ting cause of his unhappy master’s death, 
and the way it happened was this : 
those papers which you have in your 
hand I found scattered about the floor 
of the vault-room. His statement that 
the police could find no trace of the 
person who committed the robberies is 
quite true, for I was captain of this pre- 
cinct then, and confess I was never more 
puzzled and chagrined in my life. One 
day, when the mysterious crimes were 
still fresh in the public mind, I was 
seated at my desk writing, when a note 
was brought to me by the sergeant on 
duty. It was evidently written by an 
illiterate person, or one unaccustomed 
to handling a pen, and stated that Mr. 
Ernest Harden had been absent from 
home for such a long time that it was 
feared something had happened to him. 
The note was signed by ‘ Elias Comer- 
ford,’ who proved to be the butler of 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 133 


whom the manuscript speaks. I thought 
little of the matter then, as mysterious 
disappearances are quite common occur- 
rences, the missing persons generally 
turning up all right, and I made up my 
mind that the same thing was true in 
this case, especially as I knew young 
Harden was somewhat eccentric about 
his traveling. But nothing was heard 
of him, and at the earnest entreaty of 
the family servants up at the homestead 
I sent an agent there to look into the 
matter. He returned after an absence 
of two or three hours, wearing a most 
perplexed look on his face, and asked 
me to go back with him, as he could not 
account for the queer actions of young 
Harden’s dog. 

“ I found Hac stretched out at full 
length in front of a book-case in the 
library, growling savagely. At first I 
supposed him mad, and ordered my 
assistant to shoot him where he lay, but 
the old butler pleaded so hard, and 
seemed so confident that that was not 
the trouble, that I countermanded the 
order and tried to coax the dog from his 
position. I used every means known 
to me, but without success, and 
then I noticed that once in a while 
he would stop growling and sniff 
under the case, the bottom of which 
he had gnawed in a dozen places. 
Now, I knew very well that an intel- 
ligent dog would not act that way with- 
out cause, assuming that he was not 
mad, so I fearlessly crossed the room 
and made a hasty examination. At this 


134 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


the dog showed every sign of delight, 
running about me and snifhng in a state 
of great excitement. I called John, my 
man, to my assistance, and we exerted 
our united efforts to move the case, but 
it would not budge. Then I told him 
to get something with which to pry it 
out, and he presently returned with an 
iron bar, which we inserted in the nar- 
row opening behind it. In response to 
the pull which we gave, it swung out- 
wardly with a crash, accompanied by the 
sound of the snapping of the lock, and, 
to our surprise, moved off to one side 
without upsetting. Then we saw the 
stone steps leading to the vault, down 
which the dog bounded like a flash. I 
followed him as fast as possible, but 
quickly repented my rashness, for I came 
into collision with the door at the foot 
of the steps. I opened this, but could 
see nothing in the pitchy darkness of the 
vault. Calling to John to procure a 
candle, I retreated to the steps and 
waited for the light. Meanwhile the 
dog had entered the vault-room and 
presently there came from him a howl 
that made my hair rise on my head in 
spite of myself. I was mighty glad to 
get the light which John held, and draw- 
ing my revolver, cautiously entered the 
mysterious chamber. The dog was 
crouched in front of the vault-door, with 
his muzzle raised, emitting the most 
blood-curdling howls. 

“I Anally succeeded in dislodging 
him, and opening the door carefully, by 
means of the combination knob, I beheld 


A VERY STRANGE CASE. 


135 


a startling sight. Crouched in a corner, 
his form almost reduced to a skeleton, 
was all that remained of Ernest Harden. 
The knees drawn up to the chin, the 
clenched hands and terrible appearance 
of the face, told me the story as plainly 
as though the dead man was speaking 
to me in life. By his side we found 
this and going to a cabinet containing 
various articles collected in the course 
of his professional life, the inspector 
brought me an ordinary linen cuff, on 
which were still discernible the straggled 
lines made in the dark by a lead-pencil. 
They were in the same hand as the 
manuscript I had just read, and were in 
truth a message from the dead. With 
straining sight I read : 

August iph, i88y. When this ts 
found I shall be beyond hope of life. 
While standing before the boxes above 
me., I heard Abac coining down the steps, 
and too late it flashed through my mind 
that I had not drazvn the bookcase into 
place, intending to return at once. The 
poor fellow could see nothing in the dark- 
ness, and before I could prevent it he 
struck the door of the vault, zvhich zvas 
closed behind me. To my horror I find 
that the jar has thrown the bolts just 
enough to cause them to catch in the 
sockets, and I am caught as a rat in a 
trap. Bitterly do I regret the folly of the 
past fezv years of my life, and yet I can- 
not but acknozv ledge the justice of my 
punishment. I desire that if my body is 
found it shall be buried beside those oj 
my parents; my attorney has instruc- 


136 


OUTING library. 


tions as to my estate. 

“ I am calm noiv^ but it is the calmness 
of alter despair^ for I do not hope for 
rescue from my strange tomb. I can live 
but another day in this C 07 ifined space ^ 
and already the iveakness of ciissohition is 
stealing upon me. Farewell. 

“ Ernest Mar deni' 

The terrible document fell from my 
nerveless hand, and I stared at the in- 
spector in speechless horror. When I 
recovered myself I managed to gasp : 
“For Heaven’s sake, tell me the end of 
this fearful tale ! ” 

“ There is nothing more to tell beyond 
the fact that the stolen property was all 
sent back to the rightful owners by the 
help of the labels on the boxes. I have 
always thought poor Harden intended 
to return it at some time. Certainly he 
did not need more wealth who was so 
rich himself.” 



i 


THE FLAGELAI^E'S SIN. 

BY THERESE M. RANDALL. 

FEW years ago I 
made a tour 
over the Santa 
F e Railroad, 
and arrived at 
Albuquerque , 
the terminus, 
on the eve of a 
strange semi- 
religious spec- 
tacle. The 
F 1 ag el antes 
were next day to perform their annual 
penance with all the picturesque hor- 
rors of mediaeval fanatics. 

The hotel, which now makes a way- 
farer’s stay in Albuquerque comfort- 
able, was not then built ; but we were 
saved from the miseries of a Mexican 
inn (which in those days looked much 
like a tramp’s lodging-house) by the 
hospitality of one of the leading citi- 
zens, Signor Jose Carmigo. He was 
geniality itself, his wife charming, his 
home delightful, and his cook deserv- 
ing a pedestal among the immortals ! 

As we drove over the narrow zigzag 
road that led from the town to his ha- 
cienda, it looked as sleepy as a cow- 
path. Later, when we surveyed it from 
the signor’s dwelling, it was alive with 
a chattering, waiting throng. 

The low stone-walls which inclosed 
the wee, dried-up gardens of the poorer 



138 


OUTING TAB NARY, 


Mexicans, were soon loaded with a pot- 
pourri of contrasts. 

Black-gowned priests, well-armed ruf- 
fians, masters and peons, old age and 
youth, scrambled for positions on its 
crumbling top, until its moss-covered 
sides were hidden beneath a fringe of 
human legs. Miners of every shade and 
grade mingled in the crowd — from the 
hopeful tenderfoot buying his first “ out- 
fit ” to the long-haired, old prospector. 
Odd groups and ill-assorted neighbors 
jostled each other with strange indiffer- 
ence to those explosive things called 
“ feelings,” which are bottled up in every 
breast — to say nothing of the dangerous- 
looking “ guns ” (always “ on tap ” in the 
Southwest), which gleamed from the 
generously filled cartridge-belt in osten- 
tatious profusion. 

The sun blazed with furious energy. 
The ladies, beneath their parasols, lost 
the freshness of toilet and complexion 
which had distinguished them from 
their poorer Mexican sisters. The lat- 
ter, crouching on the ground against 
any convenient back-rest, hid their un- 
lovely youth or wrinkled maturity un- 
der their disfiguring black shawls. Even 
the Indians began to look wilted in the 
scorching sun. 

The one zephyr which was abroad 
that day played around our hacienda, 
and the thick foliage of the fruit-trees 
sifted the sun’s rays through their leafy 
coolness — yet our thermometer regis- 
tered iio^ in the shade ! 

Suddenly, that mysterious thrill 


THE FLAGELANTE’S SIN. 1H9 


which, in a watching throng, trem- 
bles in every soul at the same instant, 
flashed upon us. 

With a common impulse we drew our 
chairs up to the edge of the veranda, 
and saw — above the surging heads of 
the spectators — the white and lustrous 
banners of the approaching procession. 

With an irresistible fascination we 
gazed on what we had never seen be- 
fore — and never would wish to see 
again. 

The Flagelantes staggered toward us 
over the hot, shadeless road. Bloody 
footprints marked their way, and their 
naked feet were swollen and blistered 
by the long march in the burning sand 
of this half desert land. 

The sound of lashes — falling on near- 
ly naked bodies — made a weird accom- 
paniment to the moans of the female 
spectators, the tearful calls to “Sanc- 
ta Maria, ” and an occasional shriek of 
wild hysterics from some over wrought 
woman. 

A girl near us fainted as there passed 
before her one fanatic with a heavy 
crucifix — at least eight feet long — tied 
to his bare back by cruelly cutting 
cords. Stumbling along under this 
weight, he still had enough energy to 
flagellate his legs with a many-tailed 
whip of thorny cactus. 

For miles, under that blazing sun, 
some of the miserable creatures dragged 
their aching feet — tied so close to- 
gether that they could barely put one 
beyond the other. Others bore the tor- 


140 


OUTING LIEN ARY, 


ture of the hair shirt, the savage points 
of which were driven at every move- 
ment into the bleeding pores. But 
no matter what the form of torture 
the zealots endured, the monotonous 
“ thlash,” “ thlash ” of the whip was a 
maddening concerto. 

Some of thern, wore a breech-cloth 
only — unless the blood that painted them 
could be called covering — and a cowl 
drawn over their heads. 

Others, clad in thin cotton trousers, 
concealed their features under a muslin 
bag, through holes in which respiration 
was made possible, and sight was unre- 
stricted. 

A few were so indifferent as to scorn 
concealment, and crawled along with 
their heads uncovered — their tangled 
locks hanging over their pallid, unveiled 
faces. 

Nearly opposite us was the little 
adobe chapel where the exhausted pen- 
itents ended their pilgrimage. 

As they reached its portal the scene 
became more dramatic, for here they 
applied their horrible lashes with renew- 
ed vigor ere dragging themselves within 
to fall before the altar “purified.” 

While the last of the seventy-four 
Flagelantes slowly staggered along the 
sandy road, we arose and followed our 
host to the little chapel. 

We had reached its door and stood 
back in pity to allow the last weary 
straggler to pass in before us. But, as he 
attempted to mount the one entrance 
step he tottered, swayed for a moment. 


THE FLAGELANTE^ S SIN. 141 

and as we rushed forward to stay him — 
fell. 

We thought him dead, but when we 
drew the cowl from his face and re- 
moved a block of wood from his mouth 
(he had gagged himself so that no cry 
might escape), a faint breath fluttered 
through his pallid lips. We carried him 
tenderly into the cool hoiise, and strip- 
ping him, saw that he wore the cruel 
“ hair shirt,” while around his ankles, 
tightly drawn into the flesh, were bound 
strong cords. We gently unwound them, 
but they left ridges of swollen flesh, 
while the feet, tied together, were full 
of the cactus thorns with which the poor 
fanatic had lashed himself. 

We were so absorbed in our own Flag- 
elante that we thought no more of the 
miserable sufferers in the little adobe 
church, where, lying in abasement be- 
fore the altar, they prayed for release in 
a future world, from the consequences 
of their earthly sins. 

When night’s concealing shadows 
crept over the face of the earth the peni- 
tents stole away in silence and mystery, 
unknown, perhaps, even to each other ; 
for they had come among strangers to 
perform this self-inflicted penance. 

Next evening we were seated close to 
the house in the square patio^ which is to 
be found in the center of nearly every 
comfortable Mexican dwelling. 

We — that is, the gentlemen of our 
party — were quietly enjoying the brill- 
iant moonlight, the gentle splash, splash 
of the fountain, the scent of flowers and 


U2 


OUTING LIBBAUY. 


oiir host’s fine cigars. 

The ladies were standing in the center 
of the patio trying the strength of the 
moon’s clear light by attempting to read. 

We fell to discussing the strange cer- 
emony of the day before, and asked our 
host many questions. 

“ Some of these men may be murderers, 
others thieves, and indeed they repre- 
sent every class of sinners even to the 
many-times assassin,” Signor Carmigo 
was saying as the ladies joined us : 

“ Of what crime do you think our Flag- 
elante was guilty ? ” 

“ Oh, what if he were a murderer ! ” 
said one of the guests. 

“ A murderer ? ” our hostess scorn- 
fully replied. “ Never ! that man is a 
saint, rather.” 

Loyal hospitality is a Mexican virtue, 
and Signora Carmigo defended her 
stranger-guest as a sacred duty. 

“ Did you not notice,’' she went on 
vehemently, “ the expression of his face ? 
Ah ! it beams with holy ” — 

Her sentence was finished, not by 
words, but by eloquent blushes ; for, 
standing in the open window of his 
room (which, like all the others, led into 
the square patio ) was the tall figure of 
the Flagelante. 

“ I will myself answer your question, 
signora,” he said, in good English, bow- 
ing gracefully to our little American. 

' • I owe some explanation to my hostess, 
and that you may be relieved from any 
nervous dread, and feel that you have 
not lavished so much kindness on a 


THE FLAGEL ANTE’S SIN, 143 


murderer, I will tell you the story of 
my sin.” 

There was a little rustle, and then 
silent expectation, as we finished set- 
tling- ourselves into attitudes of keen 
attention, 

“ I beg you not to tire yourself,” said 
Signora Carmigo, going to his side. 
“ You are weak and feverish, and should 
keep quiet for some time yet. We were 
most indiscreet to discuss your affairs, 
but you will try to forgive us, I know, 
and pray return to your room.” 

“Not for me is rest, signora, until I 
am again admitted to the community 
from which my sin has driven me forth 
an outcast,” he replied, with a gentle 
smile, leading our hostess to her seat, 
and bowing with charming grace as he 
courteously waved her to be seated 

It seemed impossible to resist him, 
and Signora Carmigo quietly complied. 

He then glanced around our little 
group, and, seeing everyone seated, ac- 
cepted the chair which our host indi- 
cated, and began his story : — 

Like so many Mexican boys of good 
family, I was sent to a college in St. 
Louis to be educated. 

While there I formed a close friend- 
ship with a young fellow of brilliant 
promise, and we became, not like 
brothers so much as like one soul with 
two bodies, having but one will, one 
impulse. 

On leaving college we chose the same 
profession — that of medicine — but we 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


lU 

never gained onr diplomas ; for did I 
not say we had but one soul ? We fell 
in love — and with the same woman. 

Then a sort of madness seemed to 
come over me. My studies were neg- 
lected, and I could do naught but dream 
of her — and jealously dread my friend, 
so fascinating, so noble. 

One day I met him outside the hotel 
where we boarded, in the act of dis- 
patching a messenger with a bouquet 
of roses to the girl we both loved. 

I made some angry remark, as we 
entered the hotel together, and before I 
could realize what had happened, we 
had quarreled bitterly, and the quarrel 
ended in a challenge. 

We fought and my friend fell. 

When I saw him lying white and still 
upon the grass, with the blood from 
his wound staining his breast, I flung 
myself beside him ; but was torn away 
by my second, who drove me at once 
from the scene. 

Then, feeling myself branded another 
Cain, I fled to my parents. Happily for 
me, I was not a murderer, for I learned 
that my friend lived — and then I heard 
no more, 

I feared to hear of his marriage. I 
tried to drown memory in drink and dis- 
sipation — then I became melancholy, 
and finally turned to religion for peace. 

To please my mother, who was heart- 
broken over the wreck I seemed ready 
to become, Fretired to a monastery, and 
made what is called a retreat — a time 
spent in solitude, meditation and prayer. 


THE FLAGELANTE^S SIN, 145 


It ended in my becoming a monk. 

Oil ! how I prayed for strength — that 
moral strength in which woman, who 
seems but a tender flower physically, 
is so rich, and man so poor. 

Here was I, a young giant, fit to be 
a modern gladiator in feats which owed 
success to muscular power, cowering 
like a child before my own moral weak- 
ness. 

I could not subdue my turbulent heart 
— rebelling against solitude and craving 
love. 

I was powerless to banish the beauti- 
ful face which forever haunted me. It 
transformed the walls of my' cell into 
mirrors which reflected over and over 
again her glowing youth and tempting 
loveliness. It followed me everywhere, 
even to my devotions. 

But at last a calm came to my soul. 
My constant prayers to our holy Mother 
were answered. I began to know the 
peace which must follow in the wake 
of such a life as the dim, shadowed 
cloister holds for its dwellers. Ah, 
signora, so far from being an assassin, 
I zms almost a saint. 

One morning, while walking with some 
of my brothers to our work in the veg- 
etable gardens, I saw approaching up 
the steep side of the mountain a man 
seated on a burro. He was from a more 
cultivated civilization than ours. His 
hat, his clothes were not . those of the 
only people we ever saw — the miners 
below us, or the Mexican herders. 

But as liQ drew nearer, and finally ad,^ 


146 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


dressed tis, I cried aloud in my excite- 
ment. It was my friend — my other 
self. 

He clasped my hand with loving- fer- 
vor, and I saw that all was forgiven. 

“ And how did you find me in this 
isolated spot ? ” I asked. 

“ Easy enough. I longed to see you 
again, so wrote to your parents — and, 
behold ! I am here.” 

Our superior greeted him hospitably, 
as, indeed, we do all wayfarers — though 
he was especially gracious to my friend. 
Our kind father had from the first 
shown a particular interest in me. I 
suppose he pitied me because of my 
sinful life — which, of course, I had con- 
fessed to him when I entered the novi- 
tiate. 

As days went by the old fondness for 
my friend returned with new force, and 
I weakly dreaded the hour of his de- 
parture. 

What, then, was my joy — for he 
hinted not of his intention to me — 
when, meeting our superior one evening 
alone, at the entrance to the chapel, he 
fell on his knees — this elegant man of 
the world — and begged admittance to 
our order. 

“ Here is the peace, the tranquil rest, 
which the world cannot give,” said he, 
humbly. 

“ But, are you not married ?” I stam- 
mered at last ; for a delicacy I could 
not overcome had forbidden me to men- 
tion her in all our talks of old times. 
And he, it would seem, felt the same 


THE FLAGELANTE^ S SIN. U7 


restraint, for never once did he in any 
way refer to her. 

“ Married ? ” he echoed. “ What made 
you think that ? Certainly I am not.” 

“ Nothing — only — oh, well, I thought 
perhaps you might be,” I faltered. 

I said no more, thinking the subject 
a painful one ; but I was convinced that 
he had been rejected, and, like myself, 
was disgusted with the world. 

It seemed quite natural to see my 
friend dressed in the habit of our order. 
We were now again brothers in heart 
and profession. 

During the last week in May — a 
month devoted to our Blessed Lady — I 
was to take the last serious vows of our 
order. 

On the same day, my friend, whom 
we now called Brother Francis, was to 
enter the novitiate, which was really 
the first step into the monastic life. 

He had drawn a large sum of money 
from his agents at home, part of which 
he used in building a chapel to our 
Lady in a natural grotto near the mon- 
astery. 

Here we were to go through the sol- 
emn ceremony to which we looked for- 
ward with such eagerness. 

A few days before its arrival, I, who 
was the assistant organist, had to go to 
this little chapel to rehearse with the 
choir the music for the ceremony. 

I was playing a favorite voluntary 
while awaiting their appearance, when 
I became conscious of another pres- 
ence. 


148 


OUTING LIBBARY. 


I looked around, and saw a boy gaz- 
ing at me with mournful eyes, 

“ How came you here ? ” said I, in 
surprise, for visitors were rare at our 
lonely mountain retreat. 

A flood of tears was his only answer. 

“ Come, come,” said I, kindly, “ what 
can I do for you — what do yoii seek ? ” 
As I laid my hand on his shoulder he 
shrank away. Falling on his knees, he 
cried, while the tears almost choked 
back the words, “ Ah, I know not what 
to call you, as I see you in that strange 
dress, but your face has not changed. 
Your generous heart, I know, is the 
same ; and perhaps — perhaps, so is the 
love which they tell me you once had 
for ihe, I am no boy. Do you not 
recognize me ? Oh, Felipe, do you not 
remember Edith, for love of whom you 
challenged and wounded your friend ? 
Ah, I am she — ^his wife now, and a heart- 
broken woman. In this disguise I have 
sought your help. Oh, surely, surely 
you can not turn me away ! ” 

I was so amazed that speech deserted 
me. Ah, yes, only too well did I recog- 
nize that voice which again called me 
“ Felipe.” 

“How,” I stammered at last — “how 
can he be your husband ? Would you 
have me believe my friend a villain ! — 
for he is here preparing to enter this 
holy life. Could he, who was ever so 
frank, so generous, so truly noble, desert 
his wife and deceive us ? Impossible ! ” 
“But listen,” she sobbed, “he thinks 
himself free. He is mad on this sub- 


THE FLAGELANTE’S SIN. 149 


ject. Since he was hurt in a railroad 
accident, nearly a year ago, he has for- 
gotten me completely. You have been 
his one thought. On his recovery he 
wandered off, I suppose, to find you — 
and he has never looked upon the face 
of his little child,” 

She clung to my feet while she sobbed 
out these words, and her tears mad- 
dened me. 

I was filled with a fierce desire to 
snatch her in my arms and flee down 
the mountain side. 

I forgot everything but that she whom 
I loved, aye, ten times more madly than 
ever, was there at my feet — alone. 

But the sound of voices approaching 
startled her. She arose and sprang be- 
hind the little altar of the Blessed Vir- 
gin, saying, “ Seek me here,” as she dis- 
appeared. 

A moment later the choir entered the 
chapel, but I heeded them not. Dazed, 
enraptured, I stood gazing at the altar, 
which hid the object of my passion. 

“ Brother Ambrose ! Brother Am- 
brose ! ” they called in reverent whis- 
pers. I answered not, for I was lifted 
away from them. Their voices sounded 
far and strange ; and besides I had for- 
gotten my name in religion since she 
had called me ‘‘Felipe.” “Brother 
Ambrose,” they repeated, “why is it 
you gaze so fixedly at our Lady’s 
altar ? ” 

“ Come and prove to me that thou art 
really here,” I cried, approaching the 
little altar with outstretched hands, as I 


150 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


began to doubt the reality of what I had 
seen. Come, oh beautiful one, and tell 
me that thou art more than an ecstatic 
vision — a glimpse of the heaven be- 
yond.” 

The brothers drew back, and silently 
stole from the chapel. 

I peered behind the altar, still doubt- 
ing her presence there ; I entered the 
space allowed between it and the wall 
for the attendants to dress it from be- 
hind. I could see nothing in the dim 
light which came from the one stained 
window above. 

Suddenly she emerged from under 
the little altar. 

There she told me that, when she 
learhed from her husband’s agents, who 
for months had lost trace of him, he was 
with us and about to become a monk, 
she left her young babe and started to 
find him. 

At the mining town below she had 
learned that no woman was allowed to 
enter our monastery. “ I also heard that 
the monks were blindly superstitious, 
and that if they avoided women they at 
least loved the Mother of Christ. I was 
determined to come, so procured a 
miner’s outfit, and mounted on a burro, 
followed the trail up the mountain side,” 
she said. 

The chapel in the grotto being se- 
cluded, she had crept in there and hid- 
den under this altar, which was partly 
open at the rear. 

She had a plan to get her husband 
back — would, oh, would I help her ? 


THE FLAGELANTE* S SIX. 151 


My brain whirled, I was mad with ex- 
citement. I rushed from her and casting 
myself before the altar, fought with 
the demon within me. 

When I returned to her side I was 
trembling, but calmer. 

“ Shall I bring your husband to you ? 
Is it this you would have me do ? ” I 
asked. 

“ Useless, useless ! ” she cried bitterly. 
“ He forgets me. This strange malady 
shows itself only where I am concerned. 
Could I get him to come home of his 
own will, the doctors think that in time 
he would awaken and remember all.” 

“ Some gentle shock might hasten the 
cure,” said I, as in a dream. Then, as if 
encouraged, she unfolded her plan. 

The Angelas rang out its sweet notes, 
which said so plainly, “ Peace, peace, 
purity brings peace,” as I gave my 
sacred word to the woman I loved to 
help win back her husband. 

At dinner my pallid face and silent 
manner caused many whispered inquir- 
ies as to my health, but especially anx- 
ious looked Brother Francis. 

“ He has seen a vision,” was the mur- 
mur that seemed to hum through the 
monastery, like the droning of wee in- 
sects in June. It reached our superior’s 
ears ; calling me to his side he ques- 
tioned me, 

“ Our brothers tell me that thou wert 
found in an ecstasy, gazing at our Lady’s 
statue in the chapel of the grotto. 
Dids’t thou then see a vision, as they 
say, my son ? ” 


152 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


I longed to throw myself at his feet 
and confess all ; but I dared not, for 
well did I know that he above all others 
would be horrified at a woman’s pres- 
ence in our midst ; and must surely have 
sent her from our grounds — branding 
her as an adventuress. 

For what proof could she give him 
that her story was true ? 

As I thought of this and my promise 
to her, I took courage and lied. 

When, with his hand laid on my head 
in blessing, he asked me to describe the 
vision, I fell down in a passion of shame 
and cried : 

“ Oh, father, I cannot, I cannot ! Spare 
me this ordeal ; else I shall not have the 
boldness to ask of thee the favor I would 
crave.” 

“ Poor boy, the wondrous grace shown 
thee has excited thee to incoherency. 
Oh, thrice blessed child of our Lady, 
thy youthful eyes have seen a glimpse of 
heaven ! What favor can I, a weak and 
erring son of man, refuse to thee .? Ask, 
that I may be honored by the granting.” 

Oh, agony of shame which made my 
tongue refuse to speak ! But, as the 
blood rushed back and forth in hot 
flushes to my face, I thought again of 
her, and love once more made me bold. 

“ I would beg of thee, my father, that 
I may take the sacristan’s place, and 
alone decorate the chapel in the grotto,” 
I at length dared say. 

“Go, my son, beautify our Lady’s 
shrine. Thy request is granted. Re- 
main there if thou wilt. In thy com- 


niE FLAGELANTE^S S;iN. 153 

munings with our holy Mother, do not 
forget to intercede for me — so prone, 
alas, to earthly failings.” 

And our sainted father blessed me — 
a vile hypocrite I again felt myself to be. 

I rushed back to the chapel and be- 
gan my work. 

I nailed a tall frame to the back of 
the altar, and from this draped two long 
curtains, which fell together in full 
folds. Then I brought from the sacristy 
the finest of the priests’ filmy lace robes. 

These I hung behind the altar, placed 
the step-ladder against its back, and my 
work was done. To hover somewhere 
near was all that remained for me to do. 

I felt secure, since I had obtained per- 
mission to take charge of the sacristy. 
No one would need to enter it now but 
myself, and the rear of the little altar 
was safe. 

The monks spent much of the next 
day praying before our Lady’s statue 
in the little chapel, which they so firm- 
ly believed had been glorified by a heav- 
enly visitation. 

“ ’Tis not strange that our holy 
Mother should love one so saintly as 
thou,” said our oldest brother to me, as 
he passed me at the chapel door ; “ but 
'tis not for me to see her wondrous 
glory, for still am I of the flesh — defiled 
by sin” — and with humble reverence he 
gazed on my face 

One by one the monks passed out in 
answer to the bell calling the monastery 
to Vesper. Brother Francis was the last 
to come down the aisle. 


OUTING LIBRARY, 




“ Stay, dear brother," I said, drawing 
him to my side. “ Our father has grant- 
ed us permission — since we are so soon 
to take our vows in this spot — to stay 
away from Vesper, and say the litany 
here before the altar of our Lady." 

The chapel was deserted by all but us. 

While with rapt expression Brother 
Francis gazed into the marble face of 
our Lady's statue, I lit the candles till 
they glimmered like a score of golden 
stars. Then I began the litany of the 
Blessed Virgin, Brother Francis giving 
the response, “Ora pro nobis," in his 
fervent musical bass. 

When we had finished my compan- 
ion remained kneeling, his eyes turned 
upwards, his hands outstretched plead- 
ingly. But while he gazed, he was 
amazed to see the curtains at the back 
of the altar part, and lo ! before his won- 
der-dilated eyes, was “the vision." 

And oh, such a blushing, bright-eyed 
vision ! Over the beautiful face hung 
in soft folds, which reached to the lit- 
tle bare feet, a filmy veil, and crown- 
ing the head of loose golden hair was 
a wreath of fragrant lilies. 

Brother Francis gazed spell-bound ; 
unable to speak he still held his hands 
out pleadingly. 

“ Brother Francis, Brother Francis," 
spake the vision, in low tremulous ac- 
cents, “ why art thou here in New Mex- 
ico, when thy place is in the battle of a 
great city ? Not for thee is the cloister's 
silence. Go forth from this holy spot, 
and return to the haunts of other days. 


THE FLAGELANTE' S SIN. 155 


Go seek thy home, and expect not God’s 
blessing until thou hast done this.” 

There was silence in the chapel — the 
curtains fell together — the vision gone. 

Then arose the sound of passionate 
sobbing ; Brother Francis weeping at 
the sacrifice of his vocation, and I deplor- 
ing my love. 

Side by side at the altar steps we laid 
till exhausted with emotion my brother 
stole away. 

And now came the most bitter act of 
all — I must help my love to flee from 
discovery — and from myself ! 

She was eager to be gone, so I stole 
to the corral where her burro was un- 
noticed among our own beasts, and 
brought him to the chapel door. 

In the darkness I helped her to 
mount, and walked down the mountain 
side, as her guide, to the mining camp. 

Here a servant awaited her — she 
^vas safe ; while I — ah, who but he who 
has experienced the scorching of a 
blasted passion can tell what I suffered ? 

With her tears still warm on my 
hands — where her kisses thrilled them 
— I turned and fled in the darkness to 
my lonely cell. 

Our simple and pious superior bade 
farewell to Brother Francis with many 
regrets ; but I could not wish him god- 
speed while my heart cursed him as the 
cause of my despair. 

At last arrived the day on which I 
was to take my vows — and with it 
came calm to my tempted soul, and 
strength to repent. I sought our su- 


156 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


perior’s cell and begged admission ere 
the bell for matins rang. 

Before he could speak I fell at his feet 
in the dim light and confessed all. “ This 
was the day on which I was to take my 
vows. Oh, reverend father, not until 
thou shalt consider my penance com- 
plete, can I now speak those holy 
words ! ” Thus I finished the story of 
how I had arranged the altar, and helped 
my love, arrayed in the priests’ consecra- 
ted lace robes, to pose as our Blessed 
Lady. 

‘*A sacrilege ! a sacrilege ! ” cried my 
superior ; “ the holy garments of the 
clergy — even the blest altar — used in a 
trick to deceive, and a woman admitted 
almost into our cloister ! Oh, wretched 
boy, whose lips were thick with false- 
hoods to thy superior, who decorates the 
very altar, .who cheats his brothers, who 
harbors unholy passions, who parodies 
even the Mother of our Redeemer, thy 
penance must be public ; ” and he sum- 
moned the community with a loud peal 
of the bell. 

Prone on the stone floor I still lay, as 
the monks hurried forward and solemnly 
circled around me. 

Many were the murmurs of incredu- 
lity and horror as our father excitedly 
repeated my story. 

‘’ Say, brothers, what shall be the 
judgment on this wretched boy?” 
Thrice he repeated this question, the 
silence only broken by deep sighs. 

Ah, they loved young Brother Am- 
brose too well. My heart accused me 


THE FLAGELANTE^S SIN. 157 


more paintully as I felt the sting of 
their affection. 

I sprang to my feet, and falling on 
my bended knees beside our superior, 
cried vehemently. 

“ Let me pass sentence. I alone hate 
the culprit. Let him go forth an out- 
cast, wandering barefoot, and begging 
from door to door for a year. When at 
the end of that time the Flagelantes 
perform their annual pilgrimage, let 
him join them ; and may the blessed 
Mother whom he has insulted look down 
on him with forgiveness ere he returns.” 

“ Go,” said our superior, turning away 
with tear-dimmed eyes. Since then I 
have not beheld him. 

There was deep silence as the Flagel- 
ante ceased speaking. 

Our host was the first to break the 
spell by saying. 

“Ah, you return now to take your 
vows ; freed from your sense of guilt, 
you can now do so.” 

But the Flagelante heard not — he had 
vanished, melting like a shadow into the 
gloom of approaching dawn. 



THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 


BY CHARLES C. NOTT, JR. 

AD I lost it ? 
That was the 
question which 
was perplexing 
me. I was sit- 
ting in room 69 
of the Schweiz- 
erhof at L u - 
cerne. I had 
just added 
somewhat to the already large balance 
due the proprietors of the Schweizerhof 
on my account by partaking of a gener- 
ous dinner. My ready cash, reduced to 
some fifteen francs, made me realize that 
on the morrow a draft on my letter of 
credit would be imperative. On rum- 
maging in my trunks where my fingers 
had expected to grasp the reassuring 
letter, they closed upon the vague and 
empty air ! With gasping breath I 
dived again into the dim recesses of my 
trunk. Its contents were undisturbed, 
and showed the neatness and order of 
which I am so justly proud ; but no- 
where did the bright-green folds of my 
letter appear. It was at this point that 
I might have been seen sitting or rather 
collapsing on a pudgy German mattress, 
gazing into vacancy. 

As I sat thus stupefied, little ‘‘ side 
shows ” of thought, so to speak, were 
interspersed. I remembered that the 
French bankers at Dijon, when I had 
,last used my letter, had returned it to 



THE LETTER OF- CREDIT. 159 

me addressed to “ vSir John vSmith.” 
This had touched my republican vanity, 
and I had shown it in a careless manner 
to my friend, J. Holmley Bunker, as an 
indication of the impression made bv 
me on the average European. Bunker’s 
utmost anglomaniacal yearnings had 
never caused him to be taken for a 
Briton, save on one occasion when a 
tourist of the Cook excursion variety 
had mistaken him for the head cook of 
his party. I did not like Bunker and 
thought he was trying to dislike me. 
For the last six months he had fur- 
nished a living example of what a self- 
assertive manner, even if somewhat 
vulgar, when coupled with a copious 
revenue, can do with the nicest and 
most fastidious of girls. But this is 
obiter. To return to my financial situ- 
ation. 

When at length I had recovered self- 
possession, I began to consider how 
the theft could have occurred. Two 
days ago I had gone on an excursion 
to the Rigi. I had left my room and 
trunk both locked, and had found both 
in the same condition on my return. 
I had then strolled out, leaving them 
unlocked, to get the sunset on the lake. 
The loss must have happened then, or 
while I was at dinner. When this real- 
ization dawned upon me I rushed from 
the room to telegraph my bankers. As 
I hurried around the corner I violently 
collided with a young lady, who was 
just coming up from the salle a manger. 
I muttered an apology, and did not no- 


160 OUTim LIBJRjnY. 

tice who it was until I heard Bunker 
saying : 

“ Oh, he probably forgot his dessert, 
and ’s afraid there won’t be any left 
when he gets back again.” 

Not heeding him, I went at once to 
the telegraph office, where the grasping 
nature of the officials soon exhausted all 
save one franc of my depleted treasury. 

Owing to the dimensions of my bill, I 
felt a certain delicacy in mentioning to 
the officials of the hotel the exact 
nature of my loss, but simply said that 
my trunk had been robbed. To the 
police, however, I gave a full account 
of the affair, and was treated by those 
lynx-eyed guardians of the law as if 
they rather suspected that I was an 
impostor. They promised, of course, to 
put the whole vast machinery of the 
Swiss detective force in motion ; took 
my name, age, address and photograph, 
implying that, at any rate, they were sure 
of getting me again, and sent me forth 
wondering what touch of nature makes 
the world’s police force kin. I returned 
to the hotel, bestowed my last franc 
with a magnificent air upon a wonder- 
ing menial and retired to rest, relieved 
of the last trace of filthy lucre, yet not 
in the placid state of mind supposed to 
attend its absence. 

The next morning dawned fresh and 
clear, and I arose in very good spirits, 
forgetting for the moment my penniless 
condition. I always enjoyed breakfast 
at the Schweizerhof, firstly because I 
sat with Mrs. Wildray’s party (which 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 161 


consisted of herself, her daughter and 
Colonel Smiler, an elder brother of Mrs. 
Wildray’s, a wary, aged and crabbed 
bachelor), and, sec'ondly, because Bunk- 
ers’ plebeian tastes usually led him to 
breakfast at an earlier hour than the 
rest of us ; so we were spared his com- 
pany, although he seldom failed to in- 
trude on us at all other meals and places. 
Ever since he had worked himself into 
Mrs. Wildray’s good graces, and his in- 
tentions toward Miss Wildray had be- 
come evident to me, it had been the aim 
of my existence to prevent him from 
having her to himself. 

This morning I found the Wildrays 
and Colonel Smiler already at breakfast. 
Mrs. Wildray was lamenting, in her 
quasi-English accent, that her daughter 
was getting her into such late breakfast 
hours. The colonel was, as usual, en- 
gaged in his great life-work of grum- 
bling at the breakfast and things in 
general, and I suspected from the slight 
approach to cordiality which he put into 
his salutation, and from the mother’s in- 
tensely unconscious air, that I had just 
been coming in for a share of his snarl- 
ing. 

Miss Wildray alone looked fresh and 
happy. “I am glad to see that you 
are not in such haste to eat, drink and 
be merry as you were last night, Mr. 
Smith,” she said. 

This put me in mind in the same 
breath of my loss of the evening before, 
and of Bunker’s impertinent explanation 
of my haste, and I replied with some 


162 0 UTING LIBRA R Y, 

dignity that Mr. Bunker was so evident- 
ly and exclusively occupied with the 
pleasures of gastronomic retrospection 
that he imputed the same to me. 

Mrs. Wildray at once took occasion to 
launch forth into a laudatory history of 
Bunker’s ancestry and family, which was 
only interesting from the fact that no one 
else had ever discovered them. The col- 
onel, being thoroughly familiar with the 
thread of his sister’s discourse, saw fit to 
cut it short by bursting into open and 
violent execrations at the longevity at- 
tained by sundry eggs which dotted his 
plate. As I regarded the colonel in the 
light of a possible lender, I concurred 
heartily in the spirit, if not the letter, of 
his imprecations. This shrewd stroke 
had hardly been executed, when a 
shadow fell over my shoulder and Bun- 
ker stood before us. “Bong joor, 
ladies ! Mornin’, colonel ! H’aVe yer, 
Smith!” he said in his impertinent fa- 
miliar way. “Too bad. Miss Wildray, I 
can’t recommend you to go to the uncle, 
thou sluggard, as he seems in pari de- 
lictu^ as we lawyers say — heh. Smith! 
Sorry you’re all so late, as I’ve been ar- 
ranging for a day’s drive over to Inter- 
lachen. Thought you’d like to go there 
once over the Brunig. We can spend 
the night, and come back by rail or not, 
as we please.” 

These words fell upon me like a chill. 
I could not travel without money, and 
to get money I must either borrow from 
the colonel or from Bunker. As I had 
no liking for the former, who never lost 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 163 


an opportunity to bestow an extra piece 
of surliness upon me, I disliked very 
much to ask him for a loan ; while noth- 
ing short of the entire certainty of 
seeing Miss Wildray depart on an ex- 
cursion which Bunker would, and I 
should not grace, would force me to the 
humiliation of craving a favor of him. I 
was therefore about to raise my voice in 
a feeble protest, when the matter was 
settled by Mrs. Wildray’s saying that 
only an early riser could have conceived 
such a delightful scheme (which remark 
was accompanied by a sarcastic glance 
at me), and for a wonder the colonel 
fell in with his sister’s plan, probably 
because he had fallen out with his break- 
fast. 

Bunker said the carriage would be 
around in half an hour. The ladies gave 
the startled little screams which the 
prospect of having to be ready in so 
short a time invariably evokes ; the 
colonel invoked eternal punishment 
upon the eyes of our future driver, 
whom he foreknew to be of alcoholic 
tendencies, and the party broke up. 

A few minutes later I beheld the 
colonel coming up the stairs, and con- 
sidering him as the lesser evil, I ad- 
vanced boldly to obtain some slight 
financial assistance. He was scowling 
and breathing hard, and before I was 
within ten yards of him he began : 

“ Do you know that whelp, Greggs ? 
Here he’s had the cursed impudence to 
send me toiling up to my room after 
money to lend him. Yes, sir ! If there’s 


164 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


a man I despise it’s the man who g’oes 
around presuming, on a slight acquaint- 
ance, to strike his betters for a loan ! It 
shows a man’s a blackleg, sir, or else a 
driveling, short-sighted idiot who can’t 
contrive to keep ten dollars ahead of 
his needs ! I’m going to give him his 
dirty hundred francs ” (this was the 
exact amount for which I had intended 
to apply), “ and then tell him he is wel- 
come to it if he will keep his con- 
founded, slovenly habits out of my 
way.” 

I whistled softly, and considered that 
rarely was lender in this humor wooed, 
and still more rarely won, and went 
downstairs. There I found Bunker 
smoking a cigar and puttering around 
an open barouche, the mind and matter 
of whose motive-power consisted of a 
bucolic driver and two spavined horses. 

After a mighty effort to put my men- 
tal-digestive apparatus in a receptive 
state for the impending dose of humble- 
pie, I approached Bunker. He seemed 
unwilling to catch my eye, and, incred- 
ible as it seemed, somewhat embar- 
rassed. I plunged boldly in, however, 
and told him of my loss. 

“ Lost your letter of credit ! ” said he, 
as he arose, looking red and flustered 
by his exertions over the chain. “ Had 
your pockets picked, or has the Hel- 
vetian bunco-steerer found a ready 
victim ? ” 

“No,” said I, “I unlocked my trunk 
last night and found the letter gone, 
and I haven’t a sou left. I have tele- 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT, 165 


graphed to my bankers, and expect to 
hear from them to-morrow or next day, 
and — er — could you let me have a hun- 
dred francs till then ? I wouldn’t 
trouble you, but, as I say, I literally 
haven’t a cent to my name.” 

“ I declare. Smith, I don’t see how I 
can, really. I’m down to bed-rock my- 
self. Very sorry to appear disobliging, 
but I’ll have to wire for funds myself 
from Interlachen.” 

“ This is devilish awkward for me. I 
really don’t see how I can go to Inter- 
lachen. I can’t pay my hotel bill there, 
or here, either, for that matter.” 

“ Sorry, ’m sure ; I wish I could help 
you, ’’.and he again devoted himself to 
the axle. 

In spite of my by no means high 
opinion of him, I confess I was much 
surprised, as he was always so unpleas- 
antly careful in money matters. 

“ The low-lived beggar is going to get 
rid of me at last,” thought I; and in the 
midst of my reflections Miss Wildray 
appeared in the doorway, looking very 
handsome in her dark, closely fitting 
traveling dress. 

“Well, Mr. Smith,” she said gayly, 
“ I’ve been watching you and Mr. Bun- 
ker out of my window, and will you 
please explain to me what is the subtle 
attraction in that simple chain? ” 

“ Oh! ” said I, “ Bunker was naturally 
alarmed when he found that I shouldn’t 
be along to take care of him, and has 
been testing every inch of your convey- 
ance ever since.” 


166 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


“What! aren’t you coming she said, 
giving me a startled look. 

“ No ; at the last moment I’ve been 
prevented,” I replied significantly. 

She looked at me inquiringly, as if 
expecting a further explanation, but I 
offered none, and the pause was waxing 
awkward, when Mrs. Wildray rustled 
down the stairs, at once imparting an 
air of bustling worldliness to the entire 
courtyard. 

“Well, Mr. Smith,” she remarked 
pertly, “you remind me of a pelican in 
the wilderness rather more than any- 
thing I ever saw in my life. Have you 
lost your last friend or your first love ?” 

“ Neither of those occurrences is a cir- 
cumstance to my misfortune. I am to 
be deprived of the pleasure of your 
company,” said I, sarcastically. 

“ Indeed! I commiserate with you. 
Charles ! ” (To the colonel.) “ Charles, 
have you all the shawls ? ” 

“Come, come. Smith; don’t keep us 
waiting! You know you’re really going, 
and if not, why not?” said the colonel. 

“ I dislike to crowd your party,” said 
I, loftily. “I see there are only seats 
for four in the carriage.” 

“ Nonsense, Smith,” interposed Bun- 
ker, who was helping Mrs. Wildray in. 
“You can sit inside, and I’ll ride with 
the driver,” and he grinned sardonic- 
ally. 

“ Thanks,” I answered; “ but I won't 
incommode you to that extent. You 
might be taken for another of Cook’s 
cicerones, you know.” 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 167 


Bunker reddened. Mrs. Wildray star- 
ed at me without winking, and the colonel 
laughed, on principle, the remark being 
of a disagreeable character. While the 
others were stowing away their wraps, 
and I was tucking the robes about Miss 
Wildray, “ I didn’t think you would do 
:his ; you know you were in the party,” 
she said in a low, icy tone. 

I was stammering out some incoher- 
ent but ardent avowal, when the rustic 
on the box gave his spavined team a 
severe lash; the heavy hind wheel rolled 
perilously near the end of my foot, and 
the carriage disappeared with Bunker’s 
ruddy head wagging triumphantly be- 
side Miss Wildray’s brown curls. 

The position of a man who sees the 
girl he loves drive off with a designing 
mother and a rich rival who has pur- 
posely excluded him from the party, is 
not a pleasant one. I looked forward 
with dismay to the slow-fire of restless- 
ness, doubt and curiovsity which must 
burn for at least thirty- six hours before 
the return of the quartet would settle 
my doubts and fears. 

My impatience steadily increased with 
the day, and I passed a sleepless night. 
Several hours before the party could 
be expected to put in an appearance 
next day, I dressed with “ studied negli- 
gence ” and began to hover around the 
office and courtyard; but the warm, clean 
light of afternoon gradually softened 
and flushed over the distant mountain 
peaks and changed them into glowing 
pinnacles of rose and crimson ; the pla- 


168 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


cid colorlessness of the lake burned, 
and flamed and flashed as the sun’s 
great red disk dropped behind the deep 
blue haze of the western hills, and 
twilight filtered down through the leafy 
canopy of the broad streets, absorb- 
ing the sunset colors and changing them 
to quiet, tender hues until, at last, the 
twin spires of the quaint old Hof Kirche 
stood out sharp and black against the 
last faint glimmer of the day, and still 
my nymph, who was the embodiment 
to me of all rich, sunset beauties, came 
not. When the last chance arrival was 
a thing of the past I crept off to my 
fevered pillow. 

The next morning I found a letter 
awaiting me ; it was post-marked Inter- 
lachen, and addressed in a bold, aggres- 
sive hand. To my stupefied amazement, 
the first document I removed from the 
envelope was my letter of credit ! 
There were also some fifty-franc notes 
and a letter. The letter was from Mr. 
J. Holmley Bunker and conveyed the fol- 
lowing : “ Business first, contrition sec- 
ond, pleasure third ; therefore, first, 
would I please cause his baggage and that 
of Mrs. Wildray’s party to be sent at once 
to Geneva, and would I pay his and Mrs. 
Wildray’s party’s bill, for which funds 
were inclosed ? Second, contrition ; 
v/ould I therefore please excuse the 
slight liberty he had taken in removing 
my letter of credit the day we returned 
from the Rigi ? Wasn’t needed to swell 
his finances, but was to remove well- 
meaning third party; had heard me 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT, 169 

say I was ‘ strapped ’ and so, as a last 
resort, ‘coopered’ my funds and pro- 
posed the Bruning in order to subse- 
quently propose matrimony ; would 
‘ ante up ’ three days’ interest for use 
of said funds if that would help soothe 
injured feelings. Third, pleasure ; 
your congratulations, old boy ! I am 
appearing in my great role of the happy 
man with Dora as prima donna. All 
congratulations may be sent, postage 

prepaid, to the care of D & Co., 

Bankers, Paris.” 

I crushed the letter in my hand, curs- 
ing the day I was born, the numerous 
days I had lived, and that day, above 
all others, on which I met and loved 
Dora Wildray. 

***** 

Four months later I was standing on 
the deck of the mail-packet steaming 
down Queenstown harbor to the levi- 
athan which was to bear me to my native 
land. From my past experience, I 
rather expected that after embarking I 
should be confined strictly to the cabin, 
and I cast a wistful look at the green 
shores almost stretching hands across 
the mouth of the harbor ; but I felt a 
thrill of pleasure. I was going home ! 
Farewell to Europe and sentiment ! 
Back to America, and the keen, invig- 
orating atmosphere of work. Before I 
had found a place for everything and 
put everything in its place the pulsations 
of the engine began, and we glided out 
of the harbor. Just as I was determining 
on my costume for the deck, we emerged 


170 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


from the last protecting promontory. 
The wind whistled and bellowed over- 
head ; the floor of my stateroom heaved 
and fell, and my courage fell with it ; 
the walls rocked and swayed, and cries 
of “ Steward ! ” resounded through the 
dim corridors. I hesitated, thought of 
my tossing deckward path and the pan- 
try to be passed with all its olfactory 
possibilities in full blast, and, hesitating, 
was lost. I stretched myself upon my 
berth and closed my eyes. 

During the next five days when I 
was not in a comatose condition, as a 
rule, I devoutly wished I were. 

But on the fifth day a change came 
over me. The subtle spirit seemed to 
be slowly, faintly returning, and in the 
afternoon I arose, and with many pauses 
and relapses, staggered along the pas- 
sage, and finally stuck my ghastly face 
out upon deck. The blurred horizon 
was fast closing in, and under the fall- 
ing darkness the sea was slate-colored. 
Great spray clouds swept aft whenever 
the bow plunged down from one roller 
into the next, but the air put new life 
into me. I lurched along the deck past 
a few shapeless shapes stretched in 
steamer chairs and enswathed in rugs, 
and around a corner into the lee of the 
stern deck-cabin. For a wonder, there 
was no one there, and I settled myself 
with great satisfaction in the chair of 
some poor wretch still groaning below. 
Scarcely had I done so when the ship 
gave a tremendous roll, and a young 
lady shot around the corner, made a wild. 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT, 171 


despairing clutch at my chair, and would 
have been hurled across the deck against 
the rail if I had not sprung up and 
seized her. At the same instant the ship 
righted, and I found my arms encir- 
cling the ulster, and my asto nished eyes 
gazing into the no less astonished coun- 
tenance of the bride of Mr. J. Holmley 
Bunker. 

My supporting arms were most sud- 
denly unclasped, and, drawing back, I re- 
moved my cap and bowed with all the 
dignity I could muster. My bow was 
returned with equal hauteur and a 
very chilling “ How do you do, Mr. 
Smith ? ” 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Bunker ?” I re- 
plied politely, “and how is your husband 
and Mrs. Wildray ? ” 

She looked bewildered, and then a 
light flashed over her face, and sinking 
into the steamer chair, she covered her 
face with her hands and laughed till 
she cried. She looked so lovely with 
her blowing hair and cold red cheeks 
that a sudden renewed sense of my loss 
came over me and I lost my temper. 

“ Mrs. Bunker,” said I, “ I am rejoiced 
that the health of your husband and 
mother opens such a pleasing vista to 
you. From your mode of manifesting 
sympathy, I should presume they are 
both seasick.” I executed a frigid bow 
and was turning to go, when she sud- 
denly became serious. 

“ Oh, Mr. Smith ! I hope you are not 
Very much enraged by that loss of your 
letter of credit at Lucerne. I told Mr. 


172 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


Bunker that it was very impertinent, not 
to say criminal, and he promised to 
apologize humbly. He wrote to you, 
did he not ? ” 

“Yes; he wrote,” I replied dryly, 
“ though I can’t say that I was struck by 
the depth of his humiliation.” 

“ Why, what an outrage ! What did 
he say ? ” she asked with a most inno- 
cent look. 

“ He stated that he ‘ coopered ’ my 
letter of credit (to use his own phrase) to 
get rid of me, and then almost in the 
same connection asked for my congratu- 
lations on his engagement ; though 
why he thought my absence connected 
with that blissful consummation I’m at 
a loss to imagine.” 

I said this in a bold voice, but I felt 
that I must present a hang-dog look, 
and I could not meet her eye. 

“ Oh, that’s very plain ! ” she replied, 
“because you rather monopolized me; 
and mamma was always left with Uncle 
Charles; so what was poor Mr. Bunker 
to do ?” 

“Ah! I see! I regret that my dense- 
ness blinded me to the fact that I was 
assuming the amusing role of the wall 
between such a Pyramus and Thisbe,” I 
sneered, “ but fortunately my efforts — 
that is, my obtuseness, I mean ” (I cor- 
rected hastily) — “ was as futile as that 
of the other piece of masonry.” 

“We had such an amusing drive to 
Interlachen that day ! ” she said, in a far- 
away, retrospective manner. “Mr. Bun- 
ker was very funny. He said that the 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT, 173 

true reason you wouldn’t come with us 
was that your washerwoman had hung 
your clothes on the ‘ line of Lucerne ’ 
and the authorities had seized them.” 

“ His wit was evidently stimulated 
by the pleasures of hope. By the way, 
was I somewhat previous in addressing 
you as Mrs. Bunker ? I suppose, now I 
come to think of it, the event may not 
have come off as yet. ” 

“No; I’m not married as yet, and I’ve 
no idea when I shall be,” she replied, 
repressing a smile. “ But tell me, why 
didn’t you join us at Interlachen ? 
Aren’t you just a little ashamed of 
yourself, deserting your fellow-trav- 
elers in such a sudden fashion, and 
never dropping a line to tell them 
whether you were among the quick or 
the dead, save a very skimpy note of 
stereotyped congratulations ? ” 

“Really, Miss Wildray, I am rather 
under the impression that your party 
deserted me, and, besides, I saw no rea- 
son to suppose that the presence of third 
parties would be more desirable than 
formerly, either to the happy couple or 
their elderly relatives.” 

“ Thank you very much, Mr. Smith ! ” 
she said, with a mock-offended air, 
though during the whole conversation 
her eyes had never stopped dancing, 
nor had a little furtive smile ceased to 
play about the curves of her lips. 
“ Thank you very much, both for Uncle 
Charles and myself! We have enjoyed 
seeing the young people happy.” 

I stared at her blankly and she went 


174 OUTIKG LIBRARY. 

on in an explanatory way : 

“ I knew that I had reached years of 
discretion, but I’m not used to my new 
dignity of joint-chaperone with my gal- 
lant uncle. Mamma has been very obe- 
dient and discreet, though she says she 
is setting me an example of the model 
fiancee.” 

Still I stared, but even before my rea- 
soning faculties had asserted themselves 
a thrill of premonitory delight tingled 
through me. But the uncertainty was 
too much ! “ Miss Wildray,” I said, 

“ pardon me, but is your mother’s name 
Dora ? ” 

“ Why, yes ! ” she answered, looking 
away. “ I was named after her.” 

The blood rushed to my head, and a 
strange feeling of lightness and buoy- 
ancy came over me. But we children 
of this age are the heirs of habits of 
mental repression, and we take our 
psychical crises with a stoicism worthy 
of the Spartan. So I did not rise as on 
wings, nor sing, nor dance, but merely 
stood and looked out into the drizzling 
murk of the approaching night, where 
the sea seemed to have grown black 
with the load which had dropped from 
my heart, and the wind to whistle and 
swoop with exultation as it blew the 
last remnants of unhappiness from me. 
I seemed a new man as I turned once 
more to the girl beside me. She had 
risen and was leaning against the rail, 
gazing at the white of the waves as 
they gleamed like tossing specters. 
She shivered slightl3", but as she turned 


THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 175 


and met my eyes Tier cheeks flamed. 

“Miss Wildray,” I said, “I — I’m 
afraid I have made a very stupid mis- 
take all summer. I thought that letter 
at Lucerne meant that you were en- 
gaged. But I’ve had the reward stu- 
pidity deserves. I’ve passed a most 
wretched summer, and I was on my 
way home now to get into harness again 
and try and forget it all. I have been 
abjectly miserable.” 

“ I thought misery loved companions,” 
she said, glancing up at me. 

“ Then I must have been the epitome 
of misery from the time I joined your 
party, for I have loved you ever since.” 

“ How wretched we both must have 
been in each other’s company ! ” she 
said. ^ ^ 

I never could understand how an 
autobiographer could throw open the 
shutters and let the great unconcerned 
world gawk through at his little roman- 
tic tableau, and as I never do things I 
don’t understand doing, I shall not follow 
such an example. But other people are 
not so chary of their neighbor’s affairs, 
as I discovered several days later when 
I overheard a portly matron relating 
the scene in full with embellishments to 
a half dozen gloating auditors in a sunny 
corner on deck. 

“ Yes, my dear ; it’s so ! I had been 
feeling ill and was trying to find a re- 
tired spot on deck, when I suddenly 
came around the corner, and there they 
were ! Well, I suppose they’re engaged 
now ; but how any self-respecting girl 


176 


OUTING JABRARY, 


could let any man take her in his arms 
and kiss her on the deck of a Cunard 
steamer — I don’t care what the weather 
was — is more than I can comprehend. 
But, then, I don’t pretend to understand 
the girls of this generation. 

“ My dear, I was so shocked, I forgot 
all about my seasickness and went 
down to the cabin at once, in spite of 
my illness, to tell Mrs. Wildray what 
sort of a person her daughter was with, 
and, if you’ll believe me, that great red 
brute that she’s engaged to got up from 
where he was sprawling on a divan and 
said, ‘ Well, Mrs. Jones, are you going to 
announce this on the blackboard or 
take the Socratic method of informing 
the ship’s company ? ’ And I haven’t 
told a soul of it, just to show him that 
he was mistaken! Well! I suppose 
they’re engaged now, so it’s all right ; 
but I hope it won’t get out just how 
they behaved.” 

Which last expresses my sentiments 
exactly. 



THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR. 

V 

BY FRANKLYN W. LEE. 

HE lights, yellowed by the 
moon’s incomparable ra- 
diance, shone brightly 
in the lower windows of 
the Chateaugay and the 
Williams ; from Leip’s, 
not far beyond, came the alluring strains 
of . Waldteufel’s “ Les Sirenes ” and the 
twinkle of the arc light on the lawn ; 
a group of merry fellows tramped along 
shore, singing a fragment of some rare 
old college song ; the broad sail of a 
cat -rigger flapped lazily as the boat 
rounded to at the landing, and the min- 
gled strains of mandolin and guitar stole 
over the rippled bosom of the lake. The 
“ transients ” and cottagers at White Bear 
never had a more beautiful, more enjoy- 
able night, and although the hour was 
late there were so many pleasures to be 
found afloat and ashore that but few had 
repaired to their couches. 

During a lull in the festivities at Leip’s 
a young man made his way through the 
long, broad main hall and across the so- 
called ordinary to the door of the dining 
room, where the inevitable soiree was in 
progress, and scanned the faces of those 
present. Several of his friends, passing 
out to the veranda for a breath of fresh 
air, greeted him cordially and eyed him 
quizzically, while the girls looked regret- 
fully at his half-tennis, half-boating cos- 
tume, for he waltzed divinely, did Leland, 



178 


OUTING LIBRARY, 


when he was in the mood and could be 
won from his incomprehensible night ram- 
bles, which were more frequent now than 
ever. But he gave the revelers scant 
courtesy and continued his ocular search 
until his gaze encountered a well-made 
Adonis, whose dress suit fitted his ath- 
letic curves like a glove and whose eye 
glasses gave him a decidedly distingue 
appearance. Then the watcher’s face 
brightened perceptibly and he whispered 
something to the attendant at the door, 
who bowed and hurried away. 

“ Mr. Kamaley, you are wanted at the 
door,” said the Mercury to the Adonis, 
who turned, caught Leland’s eye and 
nodded ; then he sighed heavily, too, like 
one who feels that he has been, or is 
about to be, robbed of perfect bliss ; but, 
making his excuses to the bevy of fair 
ones in his vicinity, he leisurely made his 
way to the door. 

“What’s up, old fellow?” he asked, 
noting the loiterer’s serious face. 

“I have seen it again.” 

“ The deuce ! ” Kamaley ejaculated, 
surprise causing his eye glasses to fall 
from their aquiline elevation. “ When ? 
Where ? ” 

“Not half an hour ago ; on the penin- 
sula.” 

Kamaley rubbed the glasses thought- 
fully for a moment, and then uttered the 
monosyllabic inquiry : “ Well ? ” 

“ There isn’t much to tell,” said Leland, 
thoughtfully. “This time I was not so 
startled and hailed it, but there was no 
reply — I was a fool to expect any — and 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR. 179 


when I gave chase the thing disappeared 
before the keel of my boat touched the 
pebbles. I lingered awhile, hoping to see 
it again, but I was disappointed and 
pulled back here.” 

“ What do you suggest ? ” 

“ That we return immediately,” said 
the other, hurriedly. “ I say ‘ we,’ be- 
cause I want you to accompany me and 
see for yourself, so that you will be con- 
vinced that this is no creature of my 
imagination, but a mysterious entity 
which will puzzle both of us. In short, 
I want to assure myself that there is no 
trick. Will you come ? ” 

“ Surely,” Kamaley replied noncha- 
lantly. “ I shall have to get out of this 
harness, though, and in the meantime you 
can go down and tell Victor to get my 
boat ready.” 

“ Everything is in readiness ; hurry,” 
said Leland, briefly, and his friend ran 
upstairs. 

Lighting a cigar, Leland paced nerv- 
ously up and down before the clerk’s 
desk, deaf to Colonel Leip’s praise of the 
night, his mind still seeking vainly a so- 
lution of the mystery it had encountered. 
Only the other evening, while pulling 
lazily over to the island opposite the 
town, the musical splash of the water, 
the faint ripples and the rhythm of the 
stroke mingling with the drift of his 
poetic fancy, he had been spellbound by 
a strange sight. From a clump of trees 
on shore there had emerged a slight, 
white-robed figure almost transparent in 
quality, which had floated down to the 


180 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


water’s edge and paused there, regarding 
the rower steadfastly. It was a woman, 
and, as he reversed his stroke and backed 
m, he saw that her pale, ethereal face 
was singidarly beautiful. Then he per- 
mitted the boat to drift idly, and their 
eyes met ; hers with a wealth of indefina- 
ble pathos in their peculiar depths ; his, 
fascinated, troubled and puzzled. 

Thinking her some poor creature in dis- 
tress, he went to the oars again and sent 
his cedar flying stern foremost to the land- 
ing, but when within a dozen yards he saw 
the figure disappear and a tremor seized 
him. For several minutes he sat there in- 
animate, as if hypnotized, and then slowly 
returned to Leip’s, wondering what he had 
seen and what it meant. To Kamaley 
alone had he confided the story. The 
latter, when told of the adventure, had 
laughed lightly and hinted that he had 
always known White Bear sherry to be of 
a poor quality and likely to produce pe- 
culiar effects ; but Leland was so thor- 
oughly convinced and earnest as to brook 
no raillery. Now he had seen it a second 
time — this very night — on the peninsula, 
a mile or more away from the scene of the 
first encounter, and he was determined 
that his friend should behold the shape, 
admit the truth of the story and aid him 
in solving the riddle. 

In a short space Kamaley, now in im- 
maculate flannels, with a crimson sash 
about his generous waist and his insep- 
arable fez on the back of his blonde head, 
descended to the office and, with a last lin- 
gering look at the gay scene within, fol 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR, 181 


lowed his friend down to the landing. 

The breeze had stiffened a little during 
the hour and the moon hung near a bank 
of threatening clouds, which were occa- 
sionally revealed by faint flashes of light- 
ning. The sail filled readily and the 
boat veered away from the pier, gliding 
smoothly and swiftly. Leland held the 
tiller and made for the strait between the 
island and the village of White Bear. The 
town lights were fast disappearing and 
the lake was almost deserted, only an oc- 
casional boat load of revelers or a pair of 
loving idlers being met with. Finding 
nothing there, after a brief wait, he swung 
about, heading for the peninsula, from 
whence there came the subdued echo of 
a song, but the search was no more suc- 
cessful than at first. Sighing a little and 
casting a last glance toward the village in 
the hope of detecting the vision on the 
dim shore, Leland pointed Mahtomedi, 
whose woody background loomed darkly 
beyond, and, lashing the tiller, produced 
a fresh cigar and smoked in moody si- 
lence until his friend spoke. 

“The conditions don’t appear to favor 
a materialization sea^ice this evening, do 
they ? Or perhaps your ethereal temp- 
tress believes in the old saying that ‘two’s 
company.’ ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Leland, sullenly. 
“ I can’t make it out, and the thing is 
getting to be such a nightmare that I 
don’t sleep well.” 

“ Depend upon it, old fellow, there is a 
trick. Some day you will find that you 
have been the victim of a huge joke.” 


182 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


“I don’t think so. If it should turn 
out that way, however, the joker will 
regret it,” muttered Leland, angrily. 

“ Pshaw ! Give and take,” said his 
friend, lightly. Then, as they neared 
Mahtomedi, he added : “ There’s nothing 
here, Dick. Hadn’t we better come 
about?” 

“Yes. Come and take the tiller, and 
I’ll stand at the bow. Head her for the 
peninsula again. Perhaps I can discover 
something which would escape your eyes.” 

Kamaley went aft and Leland crept to 
the bow, where he leaned against the 
mast, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse 
of the object of their search. The moon 
had gone behind the clouds and darkness 
settled upon them, while a fine breeze sent 
the staunch cat -rigger bowling over the 
waves until the lights in the Chateaugay 
Assembly Hall were lost in the gloom be- 
hind. The person at the helm hummed a 
ditty rather impatiently, for the thought 
that a wild-goose chase had taken him 
from the pleasures of the dance was not 
at all comforting. Taking out his watch 
and bringing the dial close to the glow of 
his cigar he saw that it was almost mid- 
night, and he sighed as he thought of 
the lucky fellows who were at that mo- 
ment encircling pliant waists in the last 
delightful waltz. As he replaced his 
watch the sound of Leland’s low voice 
was wafted back to him. 

“ Howard ! Look ! ” 

He peered into the night and beheld 
something which disturbed his habitual 
equipoise. Gliding before the boat, with- 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR. 183 


in twenty feet of where Leland stood, was 
a half-submerged, ghostly figure, draped 
in ethereal clinging garments. The dim 
features were indistinct to Kamaley, who 
could only see imperfectly, but the appa- 
rition was feminine and not at all bad 
looking. Leland, holding to the mast, bent 
forward as much as he dared, fascinated 
by the wraith, which moved so tantaliz- 
ingly at a safe distance. Once he turned 
to his friend and inquired, somewhat exult- 
antly : 

“ Can you see ? Do you doubt me 
now ? ” 

“ Can I doubt my own eyes ? ” retorted 
Kamaley, seeking to gain a better view. 
And, as they sped on in the strange 
chase, the spectre, like the hand of the 
Lady of the Lake in Tennyson’s “ Idylls,” 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

until the full length of the slight figure 
was revealed to the watchers. 

“ Keep a sharp look out,” whispered 
Kamaley, “ or we shall run head on to 
the peninsula and wind up with a wreck.” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said the other in a low tone. 
“When I give the word luff a little, swing 
around and come back after me. Keep 
your wits about you.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” his com- 
panion demanded. 

“ Wait and see.” 

Still the figure glided before them, grow- 
ing distinct and indistinct by turns. Sud- 
denly the point of the peninsula loomed 
ahead in rugged outline and Leland gave 


184 


OUTING LIBBARY. 


the signal. 

“ Now ! ” 

Kamaley jammed the tiller over and 
heard a heavy splash as the boat ca- 
reened. Peering under the boom he saw 
that his friend was no longer at the 
bow. 

“ Hanged if he hasn’t jumped in after 
it ! ” he muttered, and then, making a cir- 
cuit, sailed back where Leland stood hip 
deep in the cool water. “What luck, 
old man?” he shouted. 

“The worst!” growled Leland, as he 
clambered aboard. “ It seemed so near 
that I jumped, but the thing dissolved 
and left me standing there like a half- 
drowned fool. Let’s go back to the ho- 
tel. ’ 

He 4: 4: H: 4: 

It was a showery Sunday succeeding a 
Saturday night of innocent dissipation. 
Those who would have courted a drench- 
ing under ordinary circumstances were 
too tired to exert themselves, and so the 
coterie at Leip’s loitered on the veranda, 
reading the latest prevarication from the 
gifted Haggard’s pen or chatting about 
little or nothing., Kamaley was the cen- 
tre of one of the groups of chatterboxes, 
and when the small talk lagged he turned 
to one of the fairest of his divinities and 
asked : 

“ When is your cousin coming. Miss 
Houghton ? ” 

“ She will arrive on Monday,” said the 
girl, flashing a bright glance upon him ; 
“and then we poor girls must expect 
cruel snubs, I suppose.” 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAU. 185 


“Why, is she so ill bred?” 

“ I don’t mean that,” she retorted, with 
a charming pout. “ Can’t you under- 
stand ? She is all that is lovely, and so 
pretty that you boys will desert us and 
bow with one accord before the newcom- 
er’s shrine.” 

“ Indeed ! It strikes me that you are 
fishing for a compliment,” said Kamaley, 
bluntly. “What is she like?” 

“ You would not believe my rhapsodies,” 
said Miss Houghton, blithely, “so I shall 
run upstairs and get her photograph. 
Luckily I have one — taken about a 
month ago.” 

She hurried away to her room and 
emerged therefrom with the likeness in 
her hand just as Leland sauntered along. 
She smiled brightly, for he was a gen- 
eral favorite, but stumbled in her haste 
and would have fallen had he not caught 
her arm. 

“ Allow me,” he said, stooping to re- 
cover the photograph, which had slipped 
from her hand. As he did so, he uttered 
an exclamation and started back. 

“Why, Mr. Leland, what on earth is 
the matter ? ” 

He made no reply, but permitted his 
eyes to feast themselves upon the picture. 
Then he asked hurriedly : 

“ This face ! — whose is it ? ” 

“My cousin’s — she will be here next 
week,” she replied confusedly, at a loss 
to account for his peculiar demeanor. 

“ And her name is ? ” 

“ Eleanor Winthrop.” 

Eleanor Winthrop ! Then he had seen 


186 


OUTING LIBBAUY, 


no wraith, only the higher personality of a 
living woman ! A thrill passed over him 
and he felt happier than he had been in 
years. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, restoring 
the disturbing bit of cardboard. “I did 
not mean to startle at you. I thought I 
recognized the face.” 

“ Impossible, unless you have been to 
New Orleans,” was the answer sent back 
to him as she made her way downstairs 
to the veranda. 

Kamaley was awaiting her return and 
smiled rather satirically when she ap- 
peared. 

“ Well, I suppose I am expected to yield 
myself captive at once. But beware ; my 
ideas of beauty are my own and I have no 
respect for canons set up by other wor- 
shippers.” 

“ At all events, I have always credited 
you with good taste,” she retorted, archly. 
“ This is her picture.” 

“ What is this ? Great heaven ! ” he 
cried, as he beheld the beautiful face. 
Passing his hand across his eyes in order 
to assure himself, he looked again, and 
then turned to Leland, who was just 
emerging from the house, and exclaimed, 
“ I say, old fellow, come here and look at 
this ! ” 

“ I have seen it,” said Leland, quietly. 

“ What is this mystery ? First Mr. Le- 
land is startled by the picture and now 
vou are completely upset ! What does it 
all mean ? ” and Miss Houghton, wholly 
bewildered, looked appealingly at each in 
turn. 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR, 187 


“Why, you see,” Kamaley began, im- 
pulsively, but Leland placed a finger upon 
his lips ; whereupon Miss Houghton stig- 
matized both as being “real mean,” and 
was disconsolate for three whole days. 
When Miss Winthrop came and fulfilled 
the highest expectations of everyone there 
was no solution offered, and her cousin 
divided her time between asking herself 
what had so agitated her two friends when 
they saw the picture, and wondering why 
it was that Leland and Eleanor so sud- 
denly became the best of friends, and why 
the latter invariably gave him the prefer- 
ence over the others. Even when their 
engagement was announced nothing was 
said which would cast any light upon the 
subject. 

One day Leland and Eleanor were out 
on the lake, he rowing idly and she sing- 
ing a favorite air in a subdued contralto, 
both deeply abstracted. Suddenly he 
asked : 

“ Shall I tell you where I first saw 
you ?” 

“ What need is there ? ” and she smiled 
winningly. “ It was at the station when 
the boys and girls met me and gave me 
such a royal reception.” 

“ That was the fourth time I had seen 
you,” he said gravely, watching her 
closely. 

“ The fourth time ? I don’t understand ! 
And yet, strangely enough, your face was 
not altogether unfamiliar to me. Let me 
think, let me think,” she returned, knit- 
ting her brow. 

“ Do so and I shall aid you. The first 


188 


OUTING LIBRARY. 


glimpse I had of you was when you stood 
upon the shore across from the island and 
near the bridge. All this happened a 
week before you came. The next time 
you were on the peninsula. As before, 
you vanished when I approached. The 
last time you seemed to rise from the 
water ahead of our boat, and as we drew 
near the peninsula ” 

“You jumped!” she exclaimed, her 
face radiant and the perplexity gone from 
her eyes. 

“ Howard Kamaley has told you, then,” 
he muttered angrily, biting his lip, for he 
had reserved for himself the pleasure of 
telling her of the strange experiences of 
which she, or her double, or her astral 
self — whichever you please — had been the 
central figure, and he was nettled by the 
thought that his friend should have re- 
vealed the secret. 

“ Not at all,” she said, promptly. “ I 
remember all now.” Then noting his 
bewildered look, she added, softly and 
earnestly : “ I dreamed it — I recall every- 
thing. I was so anxious to come here 
that the thought took complete pos- 
session of me, until my mind could 
contain nothing but my plans for the 
summer at White Bear, and at night I 
came here in my dreams. The memory 
escaped me for the time being, and when 
I came and everything seemed so familiar 
I wondered. When I met you it was 
as if I had stumbled upon an old friend, 
but I could not tell why. Although I 
have put the question to myself times 
without number I have never been able 


THE GHOST AT WHITE BEAR, 189 


to solve it.” 

“ It is fate ! ” said Leland, earnestly and 
impressively. 

“ What a solemn word ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ Are you sorry ? ” 

“ W'hat man could be sorry who has 
been sought out by so sweet a spirit 
and lifted far above his fellow creatures ? ” 

He discarded the oars and took her 
hands in his. As he drew her unresisting 
form toward him and pressed his lips to 
hers something dashed by them. 

“ Ship ahoy ! Aha, I caught you ! ” 

Looking up confusedly they beheld 
Kamaley’s cat-rigger bowling away to 
leeward, and both echoed his merry laugh. 



BOAT SAILING: 

Fair Weather and Foul 


A BOOK FOR AMATEURS 

BY 

CAPT. A. J. KENEALY. ^ 

Bound in cloth, price, post-paid, 50c. 

T his volume covers the entire field of small craft. It is written 
by a sea-dog, and “Fair Weather and Foul,” therefore 
abounds in practical hints on boats, rigs, knots, marlinespike sea- 
manship, weather wrinkles and the many things which the Old Salt 
learns by experience, and which the amateur desires to have. 
Many illustrations and diagrams make it exceedingly valuable. 

All amateur sailormen need this book, and all who enjoy sport 
on the water will read it to advantage. 

Sent, together with one year’s subscription to Outing, for )S 3 . 


THE OUTINQ CO., Ltd., 

NEW YORK. LONDON. 


5cptinr)eot. 





A Story of the Turf. 

• BY WENONA GILMAN. 


'THIS thrilling story has been read with great interest by many 
* thousand readers, and is now in its Fifth Edition. All who 
delight in the lighter touches of Southern character, social life, and 
the heroes of the turf, will find them photographed with the fidelity 
of an enthusiast and the pen of a poet ; and, what is better, the 
work has a perfectly pure and wholesome influence on the reader. 
Fully illustrated from paintings by Henry Stull, and sketches by 
Hy. S. Watson. 

i2mo, 288 pages, bound in cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50c. 

Sent, post-paid by the publishers, to any address upon receipt 
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for S3. 00. 

SOLD BY ALL. BOOKSELLERS. 

OUTINQ CO., Ltd., 239 Fifth Ave., New York. 


Key to 

Health and 

5tren§:th. 

A system of treatment for the general care 
of the human body, with directions for the 
special development of each and every muscle. 

By PROF. J. R. JUDD. 


Complete and Comprehensive. 

For Business Men and Athletes. 

“ = Fully Illustrated = = 

Invaluable to those in training for athletic events. 
The result of thirty years’ experience in the gymnasium 
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Everybody Should Read It. 



l)e of t1)e ^ear. 

^oilege [)ays 

Or, Harry’s Career at Yale. 


A Realistic Story of American College Life 
By John Seymour Wood. 

453 Pages witli numerous Illustrations. 
Handsomely Hound in English Cloth. 

PRICE, POSTPAID, $1.50. 

INCLUDING “outing” ONE YEAR, $3 50. 


The /allowing press notices admirably describe the book: 

“A bright, well told story, which every college graduate will 
read with genuine enjoyment.” — Boston Transcript. 


“ Emerson is currently believed to have said that nothing is 
good enough to be repeated. But alumni of Yale will probably 
dissent from that dictum in the case of the republication of 
‘ Harry’s Career at Yale.’ ” — Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 


“ Well written, a breezy style, and with 
such evident enthusiasm that the reader finds 
himself in sympathy almost before he 
knows it.” — Detroit Free Press. 


“ The curtain is raised upon the campus 
of old Yale with its classic elms, many of 
which have recently been supplanted by 
granite structures. The boyish rollicking 
life of the student from the time he takes 
up his abode in the humble boarding house 
of the freshman year to his occupation of 
the historic South College is depicted with 
the charm of literary taste, combined with 
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AT ALL BOOKSTORES OR FROM THE PUBLISHERS, 

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College Days or Harry’s Career at Yale — A real- 
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Saddle and Sentiment — Without doubt the most in- 
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Handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50c. 

Yacht Races for the America’s Cup — By A. J. Kenealy, 
Yachting Editor of Outing, illustrated by F. S. 
Cozzens and others. “Very attractive,” says the 
Lotidon Field. “Highly prized by all yachtsmen,” 
the New York Times. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50c. 

Key to Health and Strength — By J. R. Judd. A prac- 
tical and valuable treatise on physical culture, with 
numerous illustrations and diagrams. Bound in 
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Sport With Rod and Gun — A book of nearly 1000 
pages, profusely illustrated, invaluable to every 
sportsman. A beautiful volume. Cloth, $5.00. 

The Boys’ Book of Sports — By Maurice Thompson, 
nearly 500 pages, fully illustrated. Every boy will 
want this book. Cloth, $2.00. 

Boat Sailing in Fair Weather and Foul. — By A. J. 
Kenealy, an authority on Yachting. The work is 
devoted largely to the management of small craft. 
A valuable addition to the yachtsman’s library; will 
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LONDON. 


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Broadway and 19th St., New York. 


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